Then she went silent, like she’d already said too much.
A wave of ice rushed through my body. “What about Daddy and Grandma?” I asked carefully.
She swallowed and glanced toward the hallway. “They were yelling,” she breathed. “Grandma cried. Daddy told me I had to be quiet.”
My heart pounded. “Where was Grandma?”
“In the back room,” Lily said, eyes filling with tears. “Daddy said she was being dramatic. He told me not to open the door.”
I stood up too quickly, pain tearing through my body, but I barely felt it. “Ethan,” I said evenly, “where is my mother?”
He shrugged. “She left this morning. You’re overthinking. You just had a baby.”
“Call her,” I said.
He hesitated — only for a second — then dialed and put it on speaker.
It rang.
Then went to voicemail.
My mother never ignored my calls. Never.
I walked straight to the hallway. The spare room door was shut. Fresh scratches marked the wood near the handle.
I turned the knob.
Locked.
“Why is this door locked?” I asked without turning around.
“Don’t,” Ethan warned behind me.
Lily began crying quietly on the couch.
In that instant, I understood something with terrifying clarity: arguing wouldn’t protect us.