When I walked through the front door that evening, I was only 15 minutes late.
That shouldn’t have mattered. Not really. But in our house, 15 minutes mattered.
Fifteen minutes was enough time for the girls to start asking for dinner. Enough time for Jyll to text me, “Where are you?” Enough time for bath time to get pushed back and bedtime to unravel.
But that night, something felt wrong the moment I pulled into the driveway.
The yard was too clean.
No backpacks dumped on the steps. No chalk drawings scribbled across the concrete. No jump rope tangled in the grass. The porch light was off, even though Jyll always turned it on at six, no matter what.
I sat in my car for a second and checked my phone.
No missed calls.
No angry texts.
Nothing.
My shirt collar was still damp from the rain, and somewhere down the street, a neighbor’s lawnmower hummed softly. Everything sounded normal. Too normal.
I rested my hand on the doorknob and hesitated.
When I stepped inside, it wasn’t quiet.
It was wrong.
The TV was off. The kitchen lights were off. Dinner—mac and cheese—was still sitting in the pot on the stove like someone had walked away in the middle of cooking.
“Hello?” I called out, dropping my keys on the table harder than I meant to. “Jyll? Girls?”
Nothing answered me.
I kicked off my shoes and turned toward the living room, already reaching for my phone to call Jyll when I noticed someone standing there.
Mikayla.
The babysitter.
She stood near the armchair, phone in her hand, her face tight with worry.
“Zach,” she said quickly, “I was just about to call you.”
My heart thudded. “Why? Where’s Jyll?”
She nodded toward the couch.
Emma and Lily—our six-year-old twins—were curled up together. Their shoes were still on. Their backpacks lay tossed 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 over. I thought it was errands or—”
“Where’s Jyll?” I asked again.
I dropped to my knees in front of the girls.
“Hey, babies,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “What’s going on?”
Emma blinked at me slowly. “Mommy said goodbye, Daddy.”
My stomach twisted. “Goodbye? What do you mean?”
“She said goodbye forever,” Emma whispered.
“What?” I said sharply. “Did she say that?”
Lily nodded without looking at me. Her eyebrows were pulled together like she was trying to understand something too big.
“She took her suitcases,” Lily said quietly.
Emma’s voice shook. “She hugged us for a long time. And she cried.”
“And she said you’d explain it to us,” Lily added. “What does that mean, Daddy?”
I looked up at Mikayla. Her lips trembled.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “She was already leaving when I got here. The girls have been like this the whole time.”
I stood up, my heart pounding, and walked straight to the bedroom.
The closet told me everything.
Jyll’s side was empty.
Her pale blue sweater—the fluffy one she wore when she was sick—was gone. Her makeup bag. Her laptop. And the framed photo of the four of us at the beach last summer.
All gone.
In the kitchen, beside my coffee mug, sat a folded piece of paper.
I opened it with shaking hands.
“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.
My hands shook as I called the school.
Straight to voicemail.
Then I called aftercare.
“This is Zach,” I said. “Did my wife pick up the twins today?”
There was a pause.
“No, sir,” the woman said. “Your wife called and confirmed the babysitter. But… your mother came by yesterday.”
“My mother?”
“She asked about changing pickup permissions and requested records. We refused.”
My chest tightened.
Ask your mom.
I didn’t have time to fall apart.
I helped the girls into their jackets, grabbed their backpacks, and headed for the car.
“I can stay if you want,” Mikayla offered gently. “I can order pizza, help with baths—”
“No,” I said. “Thank you. I need to talk to my mom. And I think the girls need me.”
The drive was quiet.
Emma tapped the window. Lily hummed, then stopped.
“Is Mommy mad?” Emma asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “She’s just figuring some things out.”
“Are we going to Grandma Carol’s?” Lily asked.
“Yes.”
“Does Grandma know where Mommy went?” Emma asked, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
I swallowed. “We’re going to find out.”
My mother’s house was dark when we arrived.
She opened the door, surprised. “Zach? What’s going on?”
“What did you do?” I asked, holding up the note.
She glanced past me. “Are the twins with you?”
“What did you do, Mom?”
“Come inside,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
Inside, my aunt Diane was wiping the counter. She froze when she saw my face.
The girls sat at the table with juice boxes. I followed my mother into the den.
“Jyll is gone,” I said. “She left this.”
My mother inhaled sharply. “I always worried she’d run.”
“Why?”
“She was fragile after the twins.”
“That was six years ago.”
“She never really got better,” my mother said. “She pretended.”
“You called her ungrateful.”
“She was. And she needed control.”
“You controlled her,” I said.
“She needed structure!”
“She needed support,” I snapped.
I opened the desk drawer.
Inside were manila folders. The top one made my blood run cold.
Emergency Custody Protocol.
My name. Jyll’s name. Forged signatures.
“You forged my signature?” I whispered.
“It was a precaution,” she said. “She wasn’t fit.”
I grabbed the file and left.
That night, I lay between my daughters, staring at the ceiling.
I thought about how often I stayed silent.
How often I told myself Jyll was “just tired.”
The next morning, I found her journal.
Every page hurt.
“Day 112: Carol said I need to teach the girls resilience. I bit my lip until it bled.”
“Day 345: Carol canceled my therapy session.”
“Day 586: I miss being me.”
By lunch, my mother was removed from pickup. Lawyers were involved. No contact orders issued.
That night, I called Jyll.
“Zach,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I should have chosen you.”
“You did,” she said. “Just late.”
“I’ll keep choosing you.”
Three days later, a package arrived.
Scrunchies. Crayons. A photo of Jyll smiling at the beach.
“I hope I can come home soon,” her note said.
I turned on the porch light.
This time, I’d be waiting.