It was an ordinary evening after work. I pulled into the driveway expecting the usual rhythm of our home — toys scattered in the living room, the soft hum of the television, maybe dinner starting in the kitchen.
Instead, I walked into something I wasn’t prepared for.
Steam drifted from the bathroom doorway. Our 23-year-old babysitter had just finished taking a shower. My husband, who had told me he was working the night shift, was home — calm, composed, and acting as though nothing was unusual.
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