That part was normal. With three daughters aged nine, five, and three, plus two sons who were seven and five, chaos was just everyday life. But something felt wrong.
The babysitter, Claire, stood near the hallway pulling on her shoes, her purse already over her shoulder. She looked relieved when she saw me, but nervous too.
“I’ve been trying to reach your wife,” she said. “She should’ve been home hours ago.”
I frowned. “She didn’t text?”
Claire shook her head. That wasn’t like Meredith.
I checked my phone—nothing. No calls. No messages. A knot formed in my stomach. After Claire left, I headed into the kitchen. That’s when I noticed it: a folded note sitting alone on the counter.
It was from Meredith. Brief. Emotionless.
“I’m leaving, Ben. I finally found something real and can’t keep pretending anymore.”
