"Why?"
"Just… stay here. Let me check the house."
She rolled her eyes. "Mom. Are you for real right now?"
It was so like her old self, I could have cried. "Humor me."
I moved through the house, checking everything. Living room: nothing disturbed. Kitchen: dishes still in the sink from this morning. Mia's bedroom: jeans and sweatshirts scattered across the floor, textbooks piled on her desk. My gaze lingered on the empty spot on her closet shelf where her Nikon usually sat, then moved on.
Everything looked normal.
It didn't feel normal.
I checked every window. Every door. All locked. No signs of forced entry. Nothing missing that I could see.
In my office, papers sat in a messy stack on my desk, a huge oak monstrosity I'd found at Goodwill. On my desk sat the coffee mug I still needed to wash, my laptop, the blue composition notebook, and the desk lamp.
I turned to leave, stopped, and glanced back.
The window was open. Just a few inches. A cool draft slipped through and rustled the papers on my desk.
I stared at it for a moment. Had I opened it this morning? I couldn't remember. The forecast had been cool and cloudy, though the sun had peeked out by midday. Perhaps I'd cracked it before that.
I crossed the room and pulled it shut. Locked the latch.
Then I went back downstairs.
Mia stared at me as if I were out of my mind. "Mom, it's fine. Everything's fine."
"I know."
"Nothing's going to happen here, that's what you said, right? We're safe here."
I nodded absently. It was PTSD from the stress. Had to be. That's what the grief therapist we saw after Marcus's death used to say.Just breathe. Be calm, be steady. Breathe through it.
"Mom?" Mia looked at me, concern on her face mingled with teenage impatience.
"I know, you're right. Old habits." I forced a smile. Slowly, my heartrate decreased. "Are you hungry? Want me to whip up our favorite grilled cheese and tomato soup combo?"
"I'm not hungry. I just want to finish my algebra and English assignments and go to bed."
"Okay." I watched her climb the stairs. Apollo padded faithfully after her. His nails clicked against the hardwood floor. A moment later, her bedroom door closed with a soft thud.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty staircase, then I forced myself to move, to do something productive.
The freelance article wouldn't write itself. It was due in three days.
In my office, I opened my laptop and stared at the blinking cursor. The title mocked me from the top of the screen: "Effective Communication with Teenagers: Five Ways to Connect."
I'd written variations of this article a dozen times for different parenting magazines and websites. The advice always came easily: active listening, open-ended questions, creating safe spaces for tough conversations.
All the things I was apparently failing to do with my own daughter.
My fingers hovered over the keys. Nothing came. Maybe looking at my notes would jog some inspiration loose.
I reached for the blue composition notebook I always kept beside my laptop.
It wasn't where I'd left it.
