A little heart.
A blurry photo of her sneakers on the school bus floor.
A tiny voice note where she pretended to be a news anchor reporting on her snack like it was breaking national news.
This time, there was no joke in her voice.
There was almost no voice at all.
Just breathing.
Fast, shaky, too close to the microphone.
“Mom,” she whispered. “Please help. Come home right now.”
I was already standing before my mind had caught up with my body.
“Chloe? What happened?”
Something scraped in the background.
Slow.
Heavy.
Hardwood against something that should not have been moving.
Then my daughter’s voice came back smaller than I had ever heard it.
“Dad fell down,” she said. “And I feel weird.”
My blood went cold in a way I can still feel whenever a phone vibrates against a table.
Daniel worked from home three days a week.
