When I came home, something was off before I even stepped inside.
No music drifting down the hallway. No hum of the kitchen radio. Just the ticking clock, the low drone of the fridge—sounds that suddenly felt deafening in the silence.
The cake sat half-finished on the counter. Dark frosting smeared the bowl. The knife rested against the rim. A balloon floated near the ceiling, ribbon tangled on a cabinet handle. It was as if the world had paused mid-celebration.
“Jess?” I called, voice sharper than I meant.
Nothing.
My prosthetic leg carried me unevenly down the hall. The bedroom door was open. Her side of the closet was empty. Hangers swayed, settling into nothing. Her suitcase was gone. Shoes, mostly gone too.
My stomach clenched.
Evie slept in her crib, curls damp with sweat, one tiny hand resting on her stuffed duck. Beside her lay a folded note—Jess’s handwriting unmistakable.
Callum,
I’m sorry. I can’t stay anymore. Take care of our Evie. I made a promise to your mom, and I had to keep it. Ask her.
— J.
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