But when Helen woke at dawn, she checked again before her feet even touched the floor. Still nothing. She moved through the morning out of habit, setting the table with bright napkins, pouring syrup into a glass bowl, warming the pan for pancakes. The clock struck eight. Then eight-thirty. She tried calling. No answer. Then David. Straight to voicemail.
“Hi, it’s Mom,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “Just checking if everything’s alright. I made breakfast for the kids. Call me when you can.” The silence afterward was long and heavy. She folded the napkins again, just for something to do. By ten, she was pacing between the kitchen and the window. A car passed. Then another.