When the phone rang that afternoon, Kevin almost let it go to voicemail.
He was hunched over his desk, drowning in spreadsheets and half-finished reports, the kind that piled up mercilessly at the end of every quarter. Numbers blurred together on the screen. His boss had already hovered by twice that morning, offering thinly veiled warnings about deadlines and performance. Kevin rubbed his temples, telling himself he just needed to get through the next hour.
Then his phone lit up.
Home.
Something cold and instinctive twisted in his chest. Laurel rarely called him at work. And Lily—well, Lily should have been napping by now.
He answered immediately.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, forcing lightness into his voice as he pinned the phone between his shoulder and ear. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? Where’s Mommy?”
Silence.
Not the comfortable pause of a sleepy child, but a heavy one. The kind that made his spine straighten.
Then came a small, trembling whisper.
“Daddy?”
Kevin’s breath caught. “I’m here, baby.”
“Mommy left the house.”
The words landed like a dropped glass—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.
Kevin pushed his chair back. “What do you mean she left, Lily? Where did she go?”
“She took her suitcase,” Lily said. Her voice cracked, the way it did right before she cried. “She said she had to go somewhere. She told me to wait for you. She said you’d come home soon.”
The office noise faded. The clacking keyboards, the ringing phones—none of it mattered.
Kevin grabbed his keys and was out of his chair before his brain could catch up with his body. He didn’t wait to explain. He didn’t care if his boss shouted his name as he passed the doorway.
The drive home barely registered. Red lights, turns, familiar streets—everything blurred together under the pounding of his heart. He called Laurel again and again, each attempt met with the same outcome: voicemail.
Her voice—bright, cheerful, recorded years ago—felt like a cruel joke.
Hi! You’ve reached Laurel—
He ended the call before the beep.
When he pulled into the driveway, his chest tightened painfully.
Lily sat on the front steps, her legs tucked beneath her, clutching her stuffed rabbit so hard its ears were bent. Her eyes were swollen and red.
Kevin dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her into his arms.
“I’m here,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to her hair. “I’ve got you.”
She clung to him like she was afraid he might disappear too.
“Where’s Mommy?” he asked gently.
“She kissed me and said to be good,” Lily whispered. “She said she loved me.”
Kevin looked past her.
Laurel’s car was gone. The front door stood slightly open, swaying faintly in the breeze.
Inside, the house felt hollow.
Not messy. Not rushed.
Just… emptied.
The wedding photo that had hung in the hallway for nearly a decade was missing, leaving behind a pale rectangle on the wall. Laurel’s boots were gone. Her winter coat. The leather suitcase they’d bought together for their honeymoon.
Kevin’s steps slowed as he entered the bedroom.
A folded piece of paper waited on the nightstand.
His hands shook as he opened it.
Kevin,
Please don’t be angry. I can’t do this anymore. I feel trapped—like I’m suffocating in this life. I love Lily, but I need to find myself again. Please take care of her. You’re a good father. I know you’ll do better without me.
—Laurel
The words swam on the page.
She left.
No warning. No conversation. No goodbye to him.
Kevin sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the note crumpling slightly in his grip. His chest ached with a pressure so deep it felt physical. He wanted to scream. To demand answers. To rewind time to the moment before the phone rang.
But none of that mattered now.
That night, after Lily finally fell asleep curled against his side, Kevin sat alone in the dark living room. The house creaked softly around him. The silence was suffocating.
He replayed the past year in fragments—the way Laurel had grown distant, how she’d lose herself scrolling through travel blogs late at night, staring out the window like something beyond the glass was calling her name. She’d stopped laughing as easily. Stopped making plans.
Still, he never imagined this.
The days that followed were a haze. Kevin filed a missing person report out of obligation, even though every instinct told him Laurel had chosen this. Her phone stayed off. Her friends knew nothing. Her parents were furious—and just as lost.
And Lily kept asking.
“When is Mommy coming home?”
Each time, his heart fractured a little more.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he would say, kneeling to her level. “But Mommy loves you.”
At night, Kevin lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, cataloging every possible failure. Had he been too focused on work? Too predictable? Too ordinary?
Eventually, the questions stopped helping.
So he stopped asking.
He focused on what he could control.
Breakfasts. Preschool drop-offs. Bedtime stories.
He painted Lily’s room pale yellow. Built a reading nook. Enrolled her in dance class—the one Laurel always said they’d get around to.
Life became quieter. Smaller. But steady.
Then one morning, an envelope appeared in the mail.
Laurel’s handwriting.
No return address.
His hands trembled as he opened it.