All week, I had pictured home as the reward.
Ella would usually hear my key and come running.
My eight-year-old daughter had never learned how to enter a room quietly when she was happy, and I loved that about her.
Caroline would usually call from the kitchen that dinner was almost ready, even when “almost” meant the pasta water had not started boiling.
There would be a backpack on the floor, a shoe under the couch, and a school paper on the counter that needed my signature by morning.
That Friday, there was nothing.
The television was off.
The kitchen was clean in the wrong way, as though nobody had used it or somebody had cleaned too quickly.
The air conditioner hummed through the vents, and somewhere near the sink I could smell fruit punch under a layer of lemon cleaner.
