When Zach came home that night, he expected chaos.
He expected noise, toys everywhere, the TV blaring some cartoon theme song, and his six‑year‑old twins arguing over who got the blue cup and who got the red one. He expected his wife, Jyll, to be standing at the stove, stirring dinner and reminding him—again—that he was late.
He was fifteen minutes late.
That didn’t sound like much, but in their house, fifteen minutes mattered.
Fifteen minutes meant hungry kids.
Fifteen minutes meant bedtime creeping closer.
Fifteen minutes meant Jyll texting, “Where are you?” with that mix of concern and irritation he knew so well.
But when Zach pulled into the driveway, the first thing that hit him was how still everything looked.
Too still.
The driveway was neat—too neat. No backpacks tossed on the steps. No chalk drawings on the concrete. No jump rope tangled in the grass. The porch light wasn’t on, even though Jyll always turned it on at six sharp.
Zach checked his phone.
No missed calls.
No angry texts.
Nothing.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob, the weight of the day pressing behind his eyes. His shirt collar was still damp from the rain, and the only sound was a neighbor’s lawnmower humming three houses down.
No missed calls. No angry texts. Nothing.
When he stepped inside, it wasn’t just quiet.
It was wrong.
The TV was off. The kitchen lights were off. Dinner—mac and cheese—sat untouched in the pot on the stove, like someone had walked away in the middle of a step.
“Hello?” Zach called out. His keys hit the table harder than he meant them to. “Jyll? Girls?”
Nothing answered him.
The kitchen lights were off.
He kicked off his shoes and turned toward the living room, already reaching for his phone to call Jyll.
But someone was there.
Mikayla, the babysitter, stood awkwardly near the armchair, her phone clutched in her hand. Her face held that uncomfortable mix of worry and apology.
She looked up fast.
“Zach, I was just about to call you.”
“Why?” he asked, taking two steps forward. “Where’s Jyll?”
Mikayla nodded toward the couch.
Emma and Lily were curled up together, their small bodies pressed close. Their shoes were still on. Their backpacks lay dumped on the floor beside them.
“Jyll called me around four,” Mikayla said softly. “She asked if I could come by. She said she had to take care of something. I thought it was just errands…”
“Where’s Jyll?” Zach asked again.
He knelt in front of the girls.
“Emma, Lily… what’s going on?”
Emma blinked slowly, her eyes heavy and confused.
“Mom said goodbye, Daddy,” she said. “She said goodbye forever.”
Zach’s heart dropped.
“What do you mean, forever? Did she actually say that?”
Lily nodded without looking at him, her eyebrows pulled tight.
“She took her suitcases.”
Emma added quietly, “She hugged us for a long time. And she cried.”
“And she said you’d explain it to us,” Lily said. “What does that mean?”
Zach looked up at Mikayla. Her lips trembled.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she whispered. “They’ve been like this since I got here. Jyll was already walking out when I arrived. I tried to talk to them, but…”
“She said you’d explain it to us,” Emma repeated.
Zach stood, his heart pounding, and walked straight to the bedroom.
The closet told him 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. And the small framed photo of the four of them at the beach last summer.
All of it was gone.
Her side was bare.
Back in the kitchen, Zach spotted a folded piece of paper beside his coffee mug.
His hands shook as he opened it.
“Zach,
I think you deserve a new beginning with the girls.
Don’t blame yourself, please. Just… don’t.
But if you want answers, I think it’s best you ask your mom.
All my love,
Jyll.”
Ask your mom.
His hands were still shaking when he called the school. Straight to voicemail.
He called the aftercare number.
“Aftercare,” a tired woman answered.
“This is Zach,” he said. “Did my wife pick up the twins today?”
There was a pause.
“No, sir. Your wife called earlier and confirmed the babysitter. But… your mother came in yesterday.”
“My mother?”
“She asked about changing pickup permissions and wanted copies of records. We refused. It didn’t feel appropriate.”
Zach stared at the note again.
Ask your mom.
He didn’t have time to fall apart.
He helped the girls into their jackets, grabbed their backpacks, and led them to the car.
“I can stay if you want,” Mikayla offered. “I can do bath time, order pizza—”
“No,” Zach said gently. “Thank you. They need to be with me.”
The drive to his mother’s house was painfully quiet.
Emma tapped the window. Lily hummed for a moment, then stopped.
“Is Mommy mad?” Emma asked softly.
“No, sweetheart,” Zach said, swallowing hard. “She’s just figuring some things out.”
“Are we going to Grandma Carol’s?”
“Yes.”
“Does Grandma know where Mommy went?” Emma asked.
Zach met her eyes in the mirror.
“We’re going to find out.”
He already knew part of the truth.
Carol had never helped.
She hovered. She corrected. She judged. She called Jyll selfish for going back to work. When Jyll tried therapy, Carol insisted on sitting in—and then shut it down.
Zach had told himself Jyll was just tired.
He told her once, while folding a onesie, “You’re doing such a good job.”
She looked at him like he’d missed something important.
At Carol’s house, the porch light was off.
She opened the door, surprised.
“Zach? What’s wrong?”
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Are the twins with you?” she said, peering past him.
“Come in,” she said quickly.
Inside, Aunt Diane stood in the kitchen, wiping the counter like she’d been there a while.
In the den, Zach held up the note.
“Jyll is gone. She left me this.”
Carol sighed.
“I always worried she might run, Zach. She was fragile.”
“That was six years ago,” he snapped. “You think she stayed broken forever?”
“She never got better,” Carol said. “She pretended.”
“You controlled her,” Zach said. “You threatened her with custody.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t lie.”
He opened the desk drawer.
Inside was a folder labeled Emergency Custody Protocol.
His name. Jyll’s name. Forged signatures.
“You forged my signature?” he whispered.
“It was a precaution,” Carol said. “She wasn’t fit.”
Zach grabbed the file and left.
That night, he lay between his daughters, staring at the ceiling.
The next morning, he found Jyll’s journal.
It was full of truth.
“Day 112: Carol says 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 someone.”
By lunch, a lawyer had everything.
Carol lost access. Permanently.
That night, Zach called Jyll.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see it.”
“I know,” she whispered. “You tried.”
“I’m choosing you now.”
“I know,” she said. “But I need time.”
“We’ll wait,” he promised.
Three days later, a package arrived.
Crayons. Scrunchies. A photo of Jyll smiling at the beach.
“I hope I’ll be home to you soon.”
Zach folded the note and whispered her name.
This time, he’d be waiting.
Porch light on.