The phone sliced through the dawn like a blade, and by the time I reached the counter, my whole life had already shifted, even if the world still smelled like cinnamon and coffee. Chloe’s name on the screen, then Marcus’s number, then the silence between rings thick as syrup—every second felt like a verdict I hadn’t prepared for. His voice, flat and inconvenienced, said there’d been “an incident,” that she’d “made a scene,” that she’d “left.” He said it the way people talk about spilled wine. I was already pulling on boots, already knowing he was lying, already tasting metal at the back of my throat. There are mornings that don’t end; they just keep tearing. All I heard, under his rehearsed irritation, was the echo of my daughter in the cold, saying one word: Mo… Continues…
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