When I think back on that night, it still scares me how little it took to change everything.
I was only fifteen minutes late getting home.
To most people, fifteen minutes is nothing. A red light. A slow checkout line. A quick stop for gas.
But in our house, fifteen minutes mattered.
It was enough time for the girls to get hungry. Enough time for Jyll to send me one of her worried texts — “Where are you?” Enough time for bedtime to start falling apart.
And the moment I pulled into the driveway, I felt it.
Something was wrong.
The driveway was too clean. Too quiet.
No tiny sneakers kicked off near the steps. No backpacks dumped like they always were. No chalk drawings scribbled across the concrete. No jump rope tangled in the grass.
The porch light was off.
Jyll always turned it on at six.
I checked my phone.
No missed calls.
No texts.
No angry messages.
Nothing.
I sat there for a second with my hand on the steering wheel, the rain still dripping from my jacket collar, listening to a neighbor’s lawnmower humming somewhere down the block.
Fifteen minutes mattered.
I grabbed my keys and stepped inside.
It wasn’t just quiet.
It was wrong.
The TV was off.
The lights were off.
Dinner — mac and cheese — was still sitting in the pot on the stove, like someone had walked away mid-step.
“Hello?” I called out.
My keys hit the table harder than I meant them to.
“Jyll? Girls?”
Nothing.
I kicked off my shoes and rounded the corner toward the living room, already reaching for my phone to call Jyll.
And then I froze.
Someone was already there.
Mikayla, our babysitter, stood awkwardly near the armchair, phone clutched in her hand. Her face looked tight, unsure, like she didn’t know whether to apologize or panic.
She looked up when she saw me.
“Zach,” she said quickly. “I was just about to call you.”
My heart jumped. “Why? Where’s Jyll?”
She nodded toward the couch.
That’s when I saw them.
Emma and Lily, our six-year-old twins, were curled up together like a single shape. Their shoes were still on. Their backpacks were dumped beside them on the floor.
“Jyll called me around four,” Mikayla explained. “She said she needed to take care of something and asked if I could come by. I thought it was errands or something…”
“Where is she?” I asked again, my voice sharper now.
I knelt in front of the girls.
“Hey, peanut,” I said softly. “What’s going on?”
Emma blinked at me slowly.
“Mom said goodbye, Daddy,” she said. “She said goodbye forever.”
My chest tightened. “Forever? What do you mean, sweetheart? Did she really say that?”
Lily nodded, staring at the floor. “She took her suitcases.”
Emma added, “She hugged us for a long time. And she cried.”
“And she said you’d explain it to us,” Lily whispered. “What does that mean?”
I looked up at Mikayla. Her lips were trembling.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said quietly. “They’ve been like this since I got here. Jyll was already leaving when I walked in. I didn’t even get to talk to her.”
“She said you’d explain it to us,” Emma repeated.
My heart was pounding now.
I stood and walked straight to the bedroom.
The closet told me everything.
Jyll’s side was empty.
Her 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 us at the beach last summer.
Gone.
I went back to the kitchen, my hands shaking.
That’s when I saw it.
A folded piece of paper next to my coffee mug.
I opened it.
“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 were shaking as I called the school.
Voicemail.
I called aftercare.
“Aftercare,” a tired voice answered.
“This is Zach,” I said. “Did my wife pick up the twins today?”
There was a pause.
“No, sir. Your wife confirmed the babysitter earlier. But your mother came in yesterday.”
“My mother?”
“She asked about changing pickup permissions and requested records. We refused. It didn’t feel appropriate.”
My stomach dropped.
Ask your mom.
I didn’t have time to fall apart.
I helped the girls into their jackets and grabbed their backpacks.
“I can stay with them if you want,” Mikayla offered. “I can do bath time, order pizza—”
“No,” I said gently. “Thank you. They need me.”
The drive to my mother’s house was painfully quiet.
Emma tapped the window.
Lily hummed and stopped.
“Is Mommy mad?” Emma asked softly.
“No, sweetheart,” I said. “She’s just figuring things out.”
“Are we going to Grandma Carol’s?”
“Yes.”
“Does Grandma know where Mommy went?”
I swallowed. “We’re going to find out.”
When my mother opened the door, she looked surprised.
“Zach? What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be home?”
“What did you do?” I asked, holding up the note.
“Are the girls with you?” she asked, peering toward the car.
Inside, the twins sat at the table with juice boxes. My aunt Diane was there, wiping the counter like she’d been there a while.
I followed my mother into the den.
“Jyll is gone,” I said. “And she says to ask you why.”
My mother sighed, smoothing her robe.
“I always worried she might run.”
“Why?”
“She was fragile after the twins.”
“That was six years ago.”
“She never truly recovered,” she said. “She just pretended.”
“You called her ungrateful.”
“She needed control,” my mother snapped. “Someone had to hold things together.”
“You controlled her,” I said. “You didn’t help.”
She went quiet.
I opened her desk drawer.
Manila folders.
The top one read: Emergency Custody Protocol.
My name. Jyll’s name. Forged signatures.
“You forged my name?”
“It was a precaution.”
“In case you finally broke her?”
“She wasn’t fit,” she said coldly. “I did what I had to do.”
I grabbed the file and left.
That night, I lay between my daughters, staring at the ceiling, realizing how often I’d chosen silence.
The next morning, I found Jyll’s journal.
Every page hurt.
“Day 112: Carol says I need to teach the girls resilience. I bit my lip until it bled.”
“Day 345: Carol came to therapy and canceled my sessions.”
“Day 586: I miss being someone.”
By lunch, my mother was removed from school permissions. A no-contact order was drafted.
That night, I called Jyll.
“Zach,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see it.”
“I know,” she said. “You tried.”
“I’m fixing it,” I promised.
“I can’t come home yet,” she said softly. “I need to find myself again.”
“We’ll wait.”
Three days later, a package arrived.
Scrunchies. Crayons. A photo of Jyll smiling at the beach.
“Thank you for seeing me. I hope I can come home soon.
— J.”
I folded the note and whispered her name.
This time, I’d be waiting.
Porch light on.