My husband cooked dinner—and minutes later, my son and I collapsed on the floor

From our son.

From responsibility.

When they finished packing, Marcus walked back toward me. I felt his shadow before I heard his voice.

“Goodbye,” he whispered. “Enjoy starting over.”

Then they were gone—suitcases rolling, a trunk slamming, an engine fading down the street.

Only when the house went silent did I dare whisper,

“Noah… can you hear me?”

A weak squeeze of my fingers.

He was awake.

Barely—but awake.

I swallowed the panic and forced my heavy hand toward my pocket. My phone felt like a brick, but I managed to unlock it.

No service.

Of course. The living room was a dead zone.

“Noah,” I whispered, “we’re going to crawl. Stay with me.”

I dragged myself forward with my elbows, tasting metal in my mouth from the effort. Noah crawled beside me, tears slipping down his cheeks without a sound.

When we reached the hallway, one tiny bar flickered onto my screen.

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