When Zach came home that evening, he was exactly 15 minutes late.
To most people, that wouldn’t mean much. But in our house, 15 minutes mattered. It meant the twins would already be hungry. It meant Jyll would usually text me, “Where are you?” It meant bedtime routines would be thrown off just enough to cause tears.
That’s why the first thing that hit me wasn’t relief.
It was how still everything felt.
The driveway looked wrong. Too clean. No backpacks dumped on the steps. No chalk drawings on the concrete. No jump rope tangled in the grass where Emma and Lily always left it.
The porch light was off.
Jyll always turned it on at six.
I checked my phone. No missed calls. No irritated texts. No follow‑ups.
Nothing.
I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, rain still clinging to my collar, the hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower buzzing faintly down the street. That quiet pressed in on me, heavy and uncomfortable.
When I stepped inside, it wasn’t just quiet.
It was wrong.
The TV was off. The kitchen lights were off. And dinner—mac and cheese—sat untouched in the pot on the stove, like someone had walked away mid‑motion.
“Hello?” I called, my keys clattering loudly onto the table. “Jyll? Girls?”
No answer.
The kitchen lights were still off.
I kicked off my shoes and rounded the corner toward the living room, already reaching for my phone—when I froze.
Someone was there.
Mikayla, the babysitter, stood awkwardly near the armchair, phone clenched in her hand. She looked up at me, her face tight with worry.
“Zach,” she said quickly, “I was just about to call you.”
“Why?” I asked, my heart already racing. “Where’s Jyll?”
She nodded toward the couch.
Emma and Lily were curled up beside each other, still wearing their shoes. Their backpacks lay discarded on the floor like they’d been dropped in a hurry.
“Jyll called me around four,” Mikayla explained softly. “She said she needed to take care of something and asked if I could come by. I thought it was errands or… something small.”
“Where’s Jyll?” I asked again.
I dropped to my knees in front of the girls.
“Emma? Lily? What’s going on?”
Emma blinked up at me slowly. “Mom said goodbye, Daddy.”
My stomach dropped. “Goodbye? What do you mean?”
“She said goodbye forever,” Emma said.
“What?” I gasped. “Did she actually say that?”
Lily nodded, her eyes fixed on the floor. “She took her suitcases.”
Emma’s voice trembled. “She hugged us for a really long time, Daddy. And she cried.”
“And she said you’d explain it to us,” Lily added quietly. “What does that mean?”
I looked up at Mikayla. Her lips were shaking.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she whispered. “She was already leaving when I got there. I tried to comfort them, but—”
“She said you’d explain it to us,” my mind repeated numbly.
My heart pounding, I rushed to the bedroom.
The closet told me everything.
Jyll’s side was empty.
Her favorite pale blue sweater—the soft one she wore when she was sick—was gone. Her makeup bag. Her laptop. The small framed photo of the four of us at the beach last summer.
All gone.
In the kitchen, beside my coffee mug, sat a folded note.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Zach,
I think you deserve a new beginning with the girls.
Please don’t blame yourself. Just… don’t.But if you want answers, I think it’s best you ask your mom.
All my love,
Jyll.”
Ask your mom.
I called the school immediately. Straight to voicemail.
Then I called aftercare.
“Aftercare,” a tired voice answered.
“This is Zach,” I said. “Did my wife pick up the twins today?”
There was a pause. “No, sir. Your wife confirmed the babysitter earlier. But… your mother came by yesterday.”
“My mother?”
“She asked about changing pickup permissions and requested copies of records. We refused. It didn’t feel appropriate.”
Ask your mom.
I didn’t let myself fall apart. I helped the girls into their jackets and grabbed their backpacks.
“I can stay,” Mikayla offered gently. “I can do bath time—order pizza—”
“No,” I said. “Thank you. They need me right now.”
The drive to my mother’s house was silent. Emma tapped the window. Lily hummed softly, then stopped.
“Is Mommy mad?” Emma asked.
“No,” I said, forcing calm. “She’s just figuring some things out.”
“Are we going to Grandma Carol’s?”
“Yes.”
“Does Grandma know where Mommy went?” Emma asked.
My grip tightened on the wheel. “We’re about to find out.”
And deep down, I already knew.
My mother had never helped—she hovered. She criticized Jyll for working. She inserted herself into therapy. She controlled everything.
I thought Jyll was just tired.
When my mother opened the door, she blinked in surprise. “Zach? What’s wrong?”
“What did you do?” I demanded, holding up the note.
Inside, my aunt Diane froze mid‑wipe at the counter.
“Jyll is gone,” I said. “And she said to ask you.”
My mother sighed. “I always worried she might run.”
“Why?”
“She was fragile after the twins.”
“That was six years ago!”
“She never really recovered,” my mother said calmly. “She needed structure.”
“You controlled her.”
“She needed control!”
I yanked open a drawer and found it—Emergency Custody Protocol.
My name. Jyll’s name. Forged signatures.
“You forged my signature?”
“It was a precaution.”
“For what? In case you broke her completely?”
“She wasn’t fit,” my mother snapped.
I walked out.
That night, Emma clutched the beach photo as she slept beside me.
The next morning, I found Jyll’s journal.
Every page hurt.
“Carol says I need to teach them resilience. I bit my lip until it bled.”
“She canceled my therapy.”
“I miss being me.”
By noon, my lawyer had removed my mother from everything.
That night, I called Jyll.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t see it.”
“I know,” she said gently.
“I choose you. I choose us.”
“I want to come home,” she said softly. “But not yet. I need to find myself again.”
“We’ll wait,” I promised.
Three days later, a package arrived.
Scrunchies. Crayons. A photo of Jyll smiling at the beach.
“Thank you for seeing me. I hope I’ll be home soon.”
I whispered her name and turned on the porch light.
This time, I would be waiting.