12/19/2025
My 11-year-old daughter came home and her key didnât fit. She spent five hours in the rain, waiting. Then my mother came out and said, âWe have all decided you and your mom donât live here anymore.â I didnât shout. I just said, âUnderstood.â Three days later, my mother received a letter and went paleâŚ.. It started like any other day. Then my phone buzzedâsix missed calls from Hannah, my 11-year-old.
I called back. Her voice was tiny, trembling.
âMom⌠my key doesnât work. I think they changed the lock.â
I told myself it was a mistake. Two hours later, more missed calls. A text: âMom, I think theyâre here. Please come.â
My stomach sank. I called again. She was sobbing.
âMom, they wonât let me in.â
âWho wonât?â I asked, my voice sharper than I meant.
âGrandma⌠Aunt Brittany⌠they said we donât live here anymore.â
By the time I reached home, the sun had set. Hannah was on the porch, soaked, curled up like she was hiding from the world. I scooped her into my arms. She whispered, âIâm sorry,â as if sheâd done something wrong.
The porch light flicked on. The door opened. My mother stood there, wine glass in hand.
âElena,â she said, surprised. âWhat are you doing here?â
I looked past her. Brittanyâs kids were sprawled on the couch. Hannahâs blanket, the one sheâd sewn herself, was folded neatly beside them.
Something inside me froze. I didnât yell. I didnât cry. I just said, âUnderstood.â
My mother blinked. âWhat?â
'You heard me.' I turned, took Hannah's hand, and walked back to the car.
Three days later,...đ¨ Continuation in the first comment đđ