I left my husband, Dan, with the kids while I took a much-needed week-long trip. It was supposed to be a relaxing break, free from the usual chaos of daily life. I’d trusted that everything would be fine at home.
But when I returned, the sight that greeted me was anything but reassuring. My heart sank as I saw my two boys, Sam and Jake, curled up and sleeping on the cold, hard hallway floor. Their faces were dirty, and they looked uncomfortable. I was immediately filled with dread. Was there a fire? A flood? Something catastrophic? Dan hadn’t mentioned anything on the phone, and he should’ve told me if there was an emergency.
I flicked off the hallway light to avoid waking them and carefully stepped over their small, sleeping forms. My mind raced as I moved deeper into the house, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened.
I first checked our bedroom—empty. Dan wasn’t there. The bed was neatly made, but there was an unsettling quietness. I felt a growing unease. Where could he be at midnight?