My six-year-old daughter abruptly muttered, “Mommy… we have to run,” just after my husband had left on his alleged business trip. Right now.
It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t imagination. It was fear—raw, urgent, and far too real for a child her age. I was at the kitchen sink, rinsing a coffee mug, pretending the quiet in the house meant peace. Thirty minutes earlier, Ethan had kissed my forehead, dragged his suitcase across the floor, and promised he’d…
