Chapter 1: The Stranger in My Own Home
The drive back to Louisville felt agonizingly slow, every mile marker a reminder of the time I had lost with my family. The strawberry cake rested securely on the passenger seat next to the silver keepsake and the deep-blue dress. I had pictured this moment for weeks: sneaking through the front door, seeing Evelyn’s eyes light up, and holding my son on his very first birthday.
But as I turned onto my street, a knot formed in my stomach.
Cars lined both sides of the road, choking the suburban street. My driveway was completely blocked by a lifted black truck that I instantly recognized. It belonged to my cousin, Marcus. I parked three houses down, my confusion slowly morphing into a low-simmering anxiety. I grabbed the gifts and the cake, balancing them as I walked toward my house.
The rhythmic thumping of bass echoed down the sidewalk. It wasn't a child's birthday party playlist; it was loud, obnoxious country-rock. Laughter and the clinking of bottles drifted over my six-foot privacy fence.
I didn't use the front door. Instead, I unlatched the side gate and stepped into my backyard.
The scene before me made my blood run cold. There were at least twenty people scattered across the lawn. The grill was roaring, loaded with expensive cuts of steak and ribs. Coolers overflowed with craft beer and liquor. My aunt, my uncle, cousins I hadn't seen in years, and neighbors I barely knew were lounging on my patio furniture.
Nobody noticed me at first. I stood frozen, scanning the crowd for Evelyn and my son. They were nowhere to be seen.
"Hey! The man of the hour!" Marcus yelled, holding up a half-empty bottle of bourbon. "Didn't think you'd make it, man! Your mom said you were stuck in Lexington!"
"Where is my wife?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
"Inside, I think," Marcus shrugged, turning back to a game of cornhole. "Someone's gotta keep the food coming."
I shoved past him, leaving the cake and presents on a patio table. I yanked open the sliding glass door and stepped into my own kitchen. The heat inside was stifling. The sink was piled high with grease-stained plates, empty beer bottles lined the granite countertops, and the floor was sticky with spilled drinks.
And there, standing at the sink with her back to me, was Evelyn.
She was wearing a faded, stained oversized t-shirt. Her shoulders were slumped, her hair a messy knot, and she was aggressively scrubbing a charred roasting pan. She looked so frail, so utterly exhausted, that my heart fractured in my chest.
"Evie?" I whispered.
May you like
She jumped, dropping the sponge. When she turned around, her eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by deep, bruised circles of fatigue. She didn't look relieved to see me. She looked terrified.
"Colin," she choked out, her gaze darting nervously toward the hallway. "You... you aren't supposed to be here until tomorrow."
