I was 15 minutes late getting home. In our house, that mattered.
The driveway was too neat. No backpacks, no chalk, no porch light—Jyll always turned it on at six. My phone had no missed calls. No texts.
Inside, the silence felt wrong. The TV was off. Dinner sat untouched on the stove.
“Jyll? Girls?” I called.
Nothing.
Then I saw the babysitter, Mikayla, standing awkwardly in the living room. On the couch, our six-year-old twins sat curled together, shoes still on.
“Jyll asked me to come by,” Mikayla said. “She said she needed to take care of something.”
I knelt in front of the girls.
“Mom said goodbye forever,” Emma said.
“She took her suitcases,” Lily added. “And said you’d explain it.”
My chest tightened.
In the bedroom, Jyll’s side of the closet was empty. Clothes, laptop, makeup, even our family photo—gone.
On the kitchen counter was a note:
I think you deserve a new beginning with the girls. Don’t blame yourself. If you want answers… ask your mom.
My mother.
I called the school. Then aftercare. That’s when I learned my mom had been there the day before, asking about pickup permissions.
I bundled the girls into the car and drove to her house.
She tried to explain it away—said Jyll was fragile, unstable, that she’d only been “helping.” I opened her desk drawer and found forged custody papers labeled Emergency Custody Protocol.
That night, I lay between my daughters and understood how badly I’d failed by staying silent.
The next day, I hired a lawyer. My mother lost all access to my wife and children.
That night, I called Jyll.
“I should’ve chosen you sooner,” I said.
“You did,” she whispered. “Just late.”
She wasn’t ready to come home yet. She needed to find herself again.
Three days later, a package arrived: small gifts for the girls, and a photo of Jyll smiling at the beach.
Thank you for seeing me, her note said.
This time, I’d be the one waiting—porch light on.