It was a normal Tuesday—until my phone rang. I almost ignored it, then saw the caller ID: HOME. I picked up, expecting my wife, Laurel. Instead, I heard my daughter Alice’s shaky voice.
“Daddy? Mommy left.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“She took her suitcase. She hugged me and said, ‘Wait for Daddy.’”
I bolted out of my office, drove home like a madman, and ran inside. Silence. No sign of Laurel. Alice was curled up on the couch, sleeping. When she woke up, her first question was, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?”
I had no answer. My eyes landed on a white envelope on the counter. My hands shook as I tore it open.
“Kevin, I can’t live like this anymore. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. But you’ll find out what happened to me in a week.”
I read it three times, trying to process it. She left us. No explanation. No warning.
For a week, I lived in hell, waiting for whatever I was supposed to “find out.”
And then, on the seventh day, I turned on the TV.
A grainy local news broadcast filled the screen. The anchor introduced a special segment on people in crisis, showcasing stories from a nearby women’s support center. I wouldn’t have paid much attention if I hadn’t heard the name “Laurel Summers.” My heart pounded.
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