I had spent the entire night caring for other people while my own child had somehow ended up sleeping on a kitchen floor in his own home.
I dropped beside him and touched his shoulder.
Then I picked him up.
His body felt cold from the tile and heavy with sleep.
He leaned into me automatically, completely trusting that if I was holding him, everything was fine.
His eyelids opened just enough for him to recognize me.
“Mommy.”
That one word hurt worse than anything I was about to find upstairs.
I carried him back to his bedroom.
I tucked him beneath the blankets, put Captain beside his face, kissed his forehead, and told him I was home.
He was already drifting back to sleep before I reached the door.
I stood in the hallway and listened.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet for a place that had clearly held some kind of gathering only hours earlier.
I looked toward the guest room.
I already knew Diane was in the house.
I already knew Marcus had not answered when I called his name.
I already knew Noah had been left on the kitchen floor.
There are moments when your mind tries to protect you by offering one harmless explanation after another.
Maybe Diane had gotten sick.
Maybe she had needed somewhere to stay.
Maybe Marcus had fallen asleep somewhere else.
