My phone rang while I was heading home. It was my six-year-old daughter, sobbing, saying she was in pain everywhere and terrified. I asked where her dad was. She said he was there—suffering too, helpless. I drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding with fear. What I walked into moments later shattered every expectation I had.

I ended the call, ran a red light, and sped the entire way, my mind racing through terrifying possibilities. Food poisoning? Gas leak? Some kind of accident? I cursed myself for leaving them alone that evening. I had insisted Michael would be fine watching Sophie while I finished a project for a demanding client.

When I finally pulled into our driveway, the house looked normal. Too normal. No smoke. No broken windows. No noise.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The air felt heavy, strangely warm, and painfully still. Sophie was curled up on the living room floor, pale, her eyes half-open. She tried to smile when she saw me but couldn’t.
“Mommy…”

I scooped her into my arms and rushed toward the bedroom.

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