I took Lily’s backpack from the hook by the laundry room. I added her inhaler, a granola bar, and the little stuffed rabbit she slept with every night. I did not take coats. I did not take toys. I did not take the family photo from the hallway where Derek had his hand on my shoulder like he owned the right to stand there.
Lily bounced near the front door, whispering, “Hurry, Mommy. Please hurry.”
I wanted to call 911. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drag Derek’s name through every police report, every family court hallway, every school office form I had ever filled out alone.
Instead, I slid my phone into my back pocket, kept one hand on Lily’s shoulder, and reached for the doorknob.
That was when the lock clicked.
Not from my side.
From the porch.
Lily stopped breathing beside me.
And then someone on the other side of our front door whispered my name…
