Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

A month ago, he pointed out a dark sedan lingering too long near the mailboxes at the end of our cul-de-sac. Another morning, he mentioned low and sharp voices behind his father’s closed office door.

I had explained it all away because I wanted our life to be normal. I wanted the suburban dream to be real.

But standing there in the terminal, feeling his small hand trembling in mine, something inside my intuition finally shifted. So we did not go home.

I drove without thinking and cut through side streets while looping through the outskirts of Northfield. My instinct was trying to outrun something I could not yet name.

Normal thoughts kept trying to anchor me back to reality. I thought about the groceries in the fridge and the school emails I needed to answer.

But nothing felt normal anymore as I watched the sun begin to set over the Illinois horizon. I parked a street away from our house and turned the engine off.

From a distance, everything looked untouched and perfect. The porch light glowed and the lawn sat perfectly still under the moon.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. I looked down to see a message from Dominic.

“Just landed. Hope you are both asleep. Love you,” the screen read.