I wasn’t supposed to be home. I came back for my son’s inhaler and overheard my husband calmly telling his mother they were selling our house — without me. They thought I’d panic, cry, and comply. Turns out, they picked the wrong woman.I wasn’t supposed to be home. That’s the thought that keeps replaying in my head, over and over, like it’s trying to rewrite the whole day. Everything before that moment was normal. Painfully normal.I picked up my kids after school. Emma, eleven, slammed the car door and immediately started talking about how unfair her math teacher was.

Leo, seven, climbed into his seat quietly, already coughing a little because the weather had shifted again.“Do you have your inhaler?” I asked, glancing at him in the mirror.He nodded. Or at least I thought he did. We were supposed to go to my sister Rachel’s place for a few hours. Mark had mentioned earlier that his mom was coming over.“Just tea,” he’d said casually, scrolling through his phone.Which, in Helen-language, usually meant an inspection.I didn’t have the energy for that kind of evening. The kids were bickering about whose turn it was to pick the cartoon at Aunt Rachel’s when something hit me. Hard.