At first glance, it looks like you’re typical suburban home with blue shutters and a porce swing. But it has extraw character. Two bicycles lay on the grass, one blue and one red. The white wraparound porch wears its chipped paint proudly, and a half-dying rose bush hugs the side of the house. It looks lived in, even from here, and something about that makes me feel at ease. There’s a faint earthy smell, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the quiet comfort of it all. Coming home to this every day must be magic.
She gives a single, affirmative nod, as if she’s readying herself, then turns off the ignition. “Let’s go.”
I try to follow her, but my breath shudders out of me, and I go clammy. The weight of what’s coming seems to crash down like ice through my veins. My hands clamp around the plastic bag in my lap, slick with sweat. My neck is tight, my chest burns, and I am suddenly glued to my seat. Too terrified to move.
Then the frontdoor bursts open. Two small bodies burst down the steps and across the yard, moving like light itself. Benny, Ellie’s husband, darts after them, scooping one up by the waist, but the other slips past, running straight for me.
Emma drops the food and intercepts him before he can get to the car. She scrambles to get him back to the house, but he fights it. Everything in him fights as tears streak his face, staying locked on me.
And then, piercing through the air and straight through my chest, he screams.
“Daddy!”
My heart stops. I can’t breathe. His small, terrified cry stabs at every nerve in my body. Before I can think, before I can reason whether this is instinct or something deeper, my hands fumble with the door.
I have to get to him. I need to get to my son.
Before I can get to him, Emma has got him back inside and shut the door.
“I am so sorry!” She reaches for me.
“Daddy!” the boy cries again from inside, and my heart threatens to rip apart.
“Steven, I’m sorry.” Emma shakes as her eyes strain against tears. “I asked them to wait until you were inside. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I know this is a lot, and we don’t have to do this—”
“Is he okay?” Panic claws at me as I stumble toward the house.
“Yes, he’s fine. Hey, hey, it’s alright.”
She cups my face, the green in her eyes glimmering with concern. Her thumb drifts softly over my sore cheek, brushing away a tear I hadn’t even noticed.
“I’m so sorry,” her voice trembles. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done this. I don’t want you overwhelmed, and they’re only seven. They don’t know—”
“Em…” I whisper, gripping the back of her neck. The move shocks me as much as it shocks her. Every touch or move between us has been made with caution, a hesitancy that feels unnatural but needed. Now all of that is gone, overpowered by the innate need I feel to comfort her, whenIam clearly the one who needs to be comforted.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, rubbing my thumb across her shoulder, the cotton fabric of her t-shirt rippling with the motion. It’s a deep red with the letters GHS on the front.
“Are you sure?”
“They’re just kids,” I say, because that feels like something someone would say in a situation like this. ‘Just kids’ seems to cover a broad spectrum of scenarios.
My eyes snag on Emma’s bottom lip as she chews on it nervously. The soft pink grows white the harder she does.
“Do you want me to wait out here?” I ask.
“No, no, that’s not necessary.” She waves me off, but the way her eyes flick between me and the door is less than convincing. I arch a brow at her, and she sighs. “Fine, yes, could you just…”
Her words linger there as she backs into the house, grimacing as the overlapping voices grow on the other side.
“Just give me two minutes.”
It’s definitely been longer than two minutes when she finally comes back. I’ve walked the length of the porch ten times, memorizing where the two loose boards are and finding the hidden stash of chalk under the bench seat.
The front door opens slowly, and I step into the foyer. The inside of the home is bright. White walls, with a different shade of white for the doors. The fireplace has been glazed over with a beige color, and there are framed photos on every wall. Some posed, some candid. Everything at eye level isn’t as alarming as Emma told me to prepare myself for. But when my gaze meets the floor, I see what she meant. The floor is covered in an array of toys—Legos, Hot Wheels, coloring books, some odd-shaped rubbertoys—a multitude of colors and shapes contrasting against the neutral walls. It’s an organized mess, with labeled bins under the television and baskets designated for larger items, like blankets and stuffed animals, nestled in the corner.
“I’m sorry it’s a mess.” Emma groans, scooping up some pillows and tossing them back on the couch.
My chance to respond is cut off by a small whimper coming from the kitchen. When I glance around Emma, I see two heads peeking out from behind the kitchen island. They duck down when they catch me looking.
