It was a normal Tuesday—until my phone rang. I almost ignored it, then saw the caller ID: HOME. I picked up, expecting my wife, Laurel. Instead, I heard my daughter Alice’s shaky voice.
“She took her suitcase. She hugged me and said, ‘Wait for Daddy.’”
I bolted out of my office, drove home like a madman, and ran inside. Silence. No sign of Laurel. Alice was curled up on the couch, sleeping. When she woke up, her first question was, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?
I had no answer. My eyes landed on a white envelope on the counter. My hands shook as I tore it open.
“Kevin, I can’t live like this anymore. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. But you’ll find out what happened to me in a week.”
I read it three times, trying to process it. She left us. No explanation. No warning.
For a week, I lived in hell, waiting for whatever I was supposed to “find out.”
And then, on the seventh day, I turned on the TV.
A grainy local news broadcast filled the screen. The anchor introduced a special segment on people in crisis, showcasing stories from a nearby women’s support center. I wouldn’t have paid much attention if I hadn’t heard the name “Laurel Summers.” My heart pounded.
A reporter stood outside a community hall, saying, “Laurel Summers is a local mother who claims she felt pushed to the brink. Tonight, she’s sharing her story…”
The camera cut away, and I froze in place, motionless as I waited for Laurel to appear. I wanted to scramble for the remote, but I also needed to see her. I’d spent seven days with no clue where she’d gone, had hardly slept a wink, and had told Alice over and over that her mother would come back soon.
When Laurel’s face filled the screen, my chest tightened. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept in a week either. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her eyes were puffy, as if she’d been crying.
She took a shaky breath. “I left home because I felt like no one understood how lonely I’d become,” she said. “I’ve been battling a heavy feeling in my heart—like I was invisible. I love my husband and daughter more than anything, but…” She glanced away from the camera, eyes full of regret. “But I needed to get away so I could rediscover who I am.”
Part of me wanted to be angry—really angry—at her. How could she just vanish? But watching her on screen, I realized that she must have been suffering in silence for so long. I hadn’t noticed. She was right there in front of me, day after day, and somehow, I missed the sadness in her eyes.