The kitchen clock ticked louder than usual that morning as I stood by the sink, a mug of cold coffee in my hands. It was just past ten, the sunlight slicing through the blinds in uneven stripes across the linoleum floor. My mind was replaying the conversation with Mrs. Ellis from the previous evening, her words lingering in the back of my mind. She had mentioned seeing my daughter in our living room at a time when she should have been at school. I had laughed it off then, but the unease had settled in, refusing to let go.
I checked my phone for messages, hesitating over the contact for my daughter’s school. They had assured me she was present in her classes, but doubt gnawed at me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. At home, my daughter was quieter than usual, spending more time on her phone, the screen locked the moment I walked by. “Everything okay?” I asked her one afternoon, attempting to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah, fine,” she replied, not meeting my eyes. Her words were clipped, as if any further conversation would unravel something she wanted to keep hidden.
I decided to reach out to Mrs. Ellis, sending a text to try and clear the air. “I want to understand what you saw. Can we talk?” But there was no reply, the silence more unsettling than any conversation might have been.
