I stayed there for a long moment, listening to the silence pressing in around me.
I cried until it felt like my ribs were bruised from the inside out—not only for myself, but for what morning would bring. For the questions my kids would ask. Questions I couldn’t lie about, but couldn’t fully answer without breaking something inside them.
**
At exactly six, my youngest climbed into bed beside me, dragging her blanket behind her like a cape. She curled up against my side.
“Mommy,” Rose murmured sleepily. “Is Daddy making pancakes?”
My heart split open.
“Not today, baby,” I whispered, kissing her curls.
I forced myself out of bed before I could fall apart again. Breakfast had to happen. Lunchboxes had to be packed. Socks had gone missing. One shoe had disappeared completely, somehow ruining two children’s mornings at once.
A few hours later, while I was pouring milk, my phone rang.
Mark—Cole’s coworker. The same man my kids trusted enough to climb on like he was playground equipment.
I lifted the phone to my ear. “Mark, I can’t—”
“Paige,” he interrupted. His voice was tight, controlled, but beneath it I heard the panic. “You need to come here. Now.”
“Where?” I froze mid-pour. “What’s happening?”