The rhythmic pulse of a home is something a husband and father learns to feel rather than hear. On a typical Tuesday, that rhythm usually consists of the high-pitched chatter of six-year-old twins, the clatter of pans, and the familiar scent of laundry and home-cooked meals. But the evening I arrived fifteen minutes late was defined by a terrifying, hollow stillness. In our house, fifteen minutes was the difference between an orderly bedtime and a chaotic evening; however, as I pulled into the driveway, I realized fifteen minutes had been long enough for my entire life to evaporate.
The cues of abandonment were subtle at first. There were no backpacks abandoned on the porch, no chalk drawings on the pavement, and most notably, the porch light remained dark. Inside, the house felt like a museum of a life interrupted. A pot of macaroni and cheese sat cold on the stove, half-stirred. I called out for Jyll, my wife, but the only response was the heavy thrum of the refrigerator.
In the living room, I found Mikayla, our occasional babysitter, standing awkwardly by the armchair. She looked as though she were presiding over a funeral. Curled up on the sofa were my daughters, Emma and Lily, their faces pale and their eyes wide with a confusion they didn’t yet have the vocabulary to express. Mikayla explained that Jyll had called her at four o’clock, claiming she had an urgent errand. When Mikayla arrived, Jyll was already walking out the door with suitcases in hand.
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