“It’s not my fault!” I yell, following after you through every step it takes for you to get ready for bed. It’s angering me even more that you’re just doing shit while I’m here trying to have a conversation.

Well, I guess more of a fight.

“I didn’t call them! I didn’t tell them which window to point and shoot at! I didn’t make signs and post them on our lawn!” I follow you into the bathroom, watching as you angrily open and close all the drawers and cabinets as if you don’t know exactly where the stuff you’re looking for is.

“It’s your life that brought paparazzi into our lives, Harry,” your words hit me like bullets grazing my skin. You’re really blaming me for this?

“The paparazzi were apart of my life before even you were! Before Ellie! You knew what you were signing up for with me!” I defend, standing directly behind you as you apply your face cream, my arms crossed.

“So, now you’re blaming me?” Your eyes squint with disgust and anger.

“No! God! I’m not blaming you! I’m just saying that it’s not my fault either!”

This entire fight is honestly ridiculous and there’s no point in having it. The damage has been done and word has been spread. We both know logically that this couldn’t have been prevented forever. And we both know that neither of us are at fault here. I guess we’re both just trying to find a place to funnel our anger.

Earlier today, as I was making breakfast for you, I got a call from my publicist. It raised some red flags before I even answered because I wasn’t scheduled for anything soon and it was so damn early. When I answered the call and heard what was up, I almost dropped my phone in my sprint upstairs.

Three years ago, you brought our baby girl, Ellie, into this world. Everything suddenly became slightly less important after she came along. All my attention and affection were on her at all times. She was—and still is—precious and special.

That’s why we decided we didn’t want her involved in my public presence at all. She was just for us, just ours. We had good ways of covering up your pregnancy, so it was easy to find ways to cover up her too. And we went three whole years without anyone even knowing we had a child.

That streak ended today.

My publicist had told me that there were some paparazzi that had camped outside my house overnight. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but it sure was never welcome. But that wasn’t it, no. My publicist went on to tell me that they got pictures. Pictures of you and…Ellie in her nursery upstairs.

My stomach had dropped so far, I’m certain it’s still sitting on the kitchen floor.

When I raced upstairs, I found you in Ellie’s room with her, sitting on the floor having a tear party. I’m not sure how loud I yelled, but it was enough to make Ellie cry. I told you both to get out of the room now, and then I practically boarded up all of her windows.

It’s been chaos ever since then.

The pictures were uploaded and word got out about our little secret. I haven’t been able to check my phone at all today. My team is on it, trying to get all photos wiped from the internet, but the message still lives on.

Ellie’s out there, and there’s nothing we can do about it now.

“It’s neither of our faults, but…maybe if you kept her blinds shut like we talked about, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” I regret the words as soon as I say them.