I was 15 minutes late getting home — small, but in our house it mattered. It meant hungry kids, a text from Jyll, and a bedtime slipping away.
But that evening something felt off. The driveway was too neat, the porch light was off, and inside was wrong: no sounds, no lights, dinner still on the stove.
I called out. No answer.
In the living room stood the babysitter, Mikayla, uneasy. On the couch were our six-year-old twins, backpacks on the floor.
“Mom said goodbye forever,” Emma whispered. Lily added, “She took her suitcases… and said you’d explain.”
My heart sank. Jyll’s closet was empty — her things gone. On the counter was a note: “You deserve a new beginning with the girls… Ask your mom for answers.”
Confused, I called the school and aftercare. They said my mother had come in yesterday asking about pickups.
I gathered the girls and drove to my mom’s house in silence.
When I confronted her with Jyll’s note, she seemed startled. But in the den she began defending Jyll’s disappearance, painting her as fragile. I pushed back. She denied it — until I found a file she’d prepared naming herself guardian in case Jyll became “unstable.”
I walked out.
That night I held the girls and realized how much I’d ignored — how I’d let my mom’s voice drown out my wife’s.
The next morning I found Jyll’s journal: entries showing her struggles, silenced by my mom’s control.
I took the girls to a lawyer. By lunch my mom was removed from pickup lists, her forged paperwork flagged, and a formal order was issued: no contact with my wife or children.
That night I called Jyll.
She answered quietly. I apologized for not seeing how deep her pain was. She told me I tried, but didn’t know how. We said we still loved each other. She couldn’t come home yet — she needed time to heal. But she wanted to eventually.
Three days later a package arrived for the girls: scrunchies, crayons, and a smiling selfie of Jyll at the beach. A note: “Thank you for seeing me… I hope I can come home soon.”
I whispered her name like a promise.
This time, I’ll be the one waiting at home — porch light on.