I wasn’t supposed to be home. That’s the part that still makes my stomach twist when I think about it. If I hadn’t turned the car around, if my son hadn’t forgotten his inhaler, none of this would’ve happened that way. Everything before that moment was ordinary. Comfortably, dangerously ordinary.

I picked the kids up from school like always. Emma, eleven, slammed the door and immediately launched into a rant about her math teacher ruining her life. Leo, seven, climbed into his seat more quietly, coughing a little because the weather had shifted again.

“Do you have your inhaler?” I asked, checking the mirror.

He nodded. Or at least I thought he did.

We were heading to my sister Rachel’s place for the evening. Mark had mentioned earlier that his mother was stopping by.

“Just tea,” he’d said, scrolling on his phone.With Helen, “just tea” usually meant judgment, notes, and quiet disapproval disguised as concern.

Halfway down the street, something hit me.

“Wait,” I said, slowing down. “Leo, where’s your inhaler?”

He froze. “I think… I left it on my desk.”

My chest tightened instantly. I turned the car around without thinking.

“It’s fine,” I said. “We’ll just grab it. I’ll be quick.”Emma groaned. “Mom, we’re going to be late.”

“This is important,” I said, already pulling into the driveway.

I jogged up the steps, keys in hand, moving quietly out of habit. And that’s when I felt it. The house wasn’t empty.