By the time I got home, I realised the problem wasn't our daughter.
It was the person who was supposed to be looking after her. ๐งต
I opened the front door and the house was strangely quiet.
Not peaceful.
The kind of quiet that makes your heart race.
I found our daughter sitting on the living room floor with dried tears on her face, clutching an empty sippy cup like she'd been carrying it around for hours.
The TV was blaring.
My husband was upstairs wearing his headset, laughing with his friends while gaming.
My husband texted me one sentence that made my stomach drop:
"Can you come home early? She's been impossible all day."
I almost ignored it because work was chaotic, but something about the way he worded it didn't sit right.
Yesterday broke me.
Because for 2 seconds I thought my mom was in the kitchen.
I was cooking dinner.
Just me. Alone.
And I did that thing she used to do. Tasting the soup with the back of a spoon, then licking it and going "needs more salt."
And I heard her voice. Clear as day.
"Boy, you better not burn my pot."
I turned around.
Nobody was there.