When Zach came home that evening, he was only 15 minutes late.
To most people, that wouldn’t matter. But in our house, 15 minutes mattered. It was long enough for the girls to start asking for dinner. Long enough for Jyll to text me, “Where are you?” Long enough for bedtime to begin sliding off schedule.
The moment I pulled into the driveway, something felt wrong.
The yard was too clean. No backpacks dumped on the steps. No chalk drawings on the concrete. No jump rope tangled in the grass where Emma and Lily always left it. The porch light was off, even though Jyll always turned it on at six.
I checked my phone.
No missed calls.
No angry texts.
Nothing.
I sat there for a second with my hand on the door handle, the weight of the day pressing behind my eyes. My shirt collar was still damp from the rain, and somewhere down the street, a neighbor’s lawnmower hummed like nothing in the world had changed.
But something had.
When I stepped inside, it wasn’t just quiet.
It was wrong.
The TV was off. The kitchen lights were off. And dinner—mac and cheese—sat untouched in the pot on the stove, like someone had walked away mid‑step.
“Hello?” I called out, dropping my keys hard on the table. “Jyll? Girls?”
Nothing answered.
As I rounded the corner into the living room, already reaching for my phone, I froze.
Someone was there.
Mikayla, the babysitter, stood stiffly near the armchair, her phone clutched in her hand. Her face was pale, her mouth tight with worry.
“Zach,” she said quickly, “I was just about to call you.”
“Why?” I asked, my heart starting to race. “Where’s Jyll?”
She nodded toward the couch.
Emma and Lily were curled up together, shoes still on, backpacks dumped beside them. They looked small. Too still.
“Jyll called me around four,” Mikayla said carefully. “She asked if I could come by because she needed to take care of something. I thought it was errands or—”
“Where is she?” I interrupted.
I knelt in front of the girls.
“Mom said goodbye, Daddy,” Emma said softly, blinking up at me. “She said goodbye forever.”
My chest tightened. “What do you mean, forever? Did she really say that?”
Lily nodded, staring at the floor. “She took her suitcases.”
“She hugged us for a long time,” Emma added. “And she cried.”
“And she said you’d explain it to us,” Lily said quietly. “What does that mean?”
I looked up at Mikayla. Her lips were trembling.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she whispered. “She was already walking out when I arrived.”
My heart pounded as I rushed to the bedroom.
The closet said everything.
Jyll’s side was empty. Her favorite pale blue sweater—the one she wore when she was sick—was gone. Her makeup bag, her laptop, the framed photo of the four of us at the beach last summer.
All gone.
On the kitchen counter, beside my coffee mug, sat a folded note.
“Zach,
I think you deserve a new beginning with the girls.
Don’t blame yourself. Please… don’t.
But if you want answers, I think it’s best you ask your mom.
All my love,
Jyll.”
My hands shook as I called the school.
Voicemail.
Then 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. But… your mother came by yesterday. She asked about changing pickup permissions and wanted copies of records. We refused.”
My stomach dropped.
Ask your mom.
I didn’t break down. I couldn’t.
I helped the girls into their jackets and loaded them into the car.
“I can stay with them,” Mikayla offered gently. “Order pizza, do bath time—”
“No,” I said. “Thank you. I need to talk to my mom.”
The drive was silent.
Emma tapped the window. Lily hummed, then stopped.
“Is Mommy mad?” Emma asked.
“No, sweetheart,” I said, swallowing hard. “She’s just figuring things out.”
“Are we going to Grandma Carol’s?” Lily asked.
“Yes.”
“Does Grandma know where Mommy went?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“I think she does,” I said quietly.
My mother had never helped. She hovered. She corrected. She controlled.
She called Jyll selfish for working. When Jyll tried therapy, my mother insisted on sitting in—and then canceled it.
I thought Jyll was just tired.
I told her once, folding a onesie, “You’re doing a great job as a mom.”
She looked at me like I’d hurt her.
When I pulled into my mother’s driveway, the porch light was off.
She opened the door, surprised. “Zach? What’s wrong?”
“What did you do?” I asked.
Inside, she inhaled sharply. “I always worried she might run.”
“Why?”
“She was fragile after the twins.”
“That was six years ago!”
“She never truly got better,” my mother said. “She needed structure.”
“You controlled her,” I said.
She denied it—until I found the file.
“Emergency Custody Protocol.”
With forged signatures.
“You forged my name?” I asked.
“It was a precaution,” she said.
I walked out.
That night, my daughters slept pressed against me.
The next morning, I found Jyll’s journal.
Page after page of pain.
“Day 112: Carol says I need to teach them resilience. I bit my lip until it bled.”
“Day 345: Carol canceled therapy.”
“Day 586: I miss being me.”
I took action.
Lawyer. Paperwork. No contact.
That night, I called her.
“Zach,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see it.”
“I know,” she said softly. “You tried.”
“I choose you now.”
“I know. Just… not yet.”
“We’ll wait.”
Three days later, a package arrived.
Scrunchies. Crayons. A photo of Jyll smiling on a beach.
“I hope I’ll be home to you soon.”
I turned on the porch light.
And this time, I waited.