I woke to a strange tickling on my cheek. Half-asleep, I brushed it away, only to feel brittle strands clinging to my fingers. My hair.
Panicked, I opened my eyes to see jagged tufts of auburn hair scattered across my pillow. My heart raced as I ran trembling fingers over my scalp, finding a hacked patch near the back of my head. Someone had cut my hair.
In the bathroom mirror, the uneven edges mocked me. I stormed into the kitchen, where Caleb sat scrolling through his phone.
“Caleb, what happened to my hair?” I demanded, anger spilling into my voice.
He frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“This!” I tugged at the uneven strands. “Was it you?”
His brow furrowed. “Why would I do that? Maybe it was Oliver. Kids do weird things.”
Dread settled in my stomach.
I found our son in the living room, deeply focused on his Legos. Kneeling beside him, I kept my tone calm.
“Buddy, did you cut Mommy’s hair?”
He froze, then looked at me with guilty eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled.
“Why would you do that?” I asked gently.
His voice trembled. “Dad told me to.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He said I had to keep it… for the box.”
“What box?”
Oliver led me to his room and pulled out a battered shoebox. Inside were fragments of my life: a dried flower from my wedding bouquet, a broken necklace, a family photo—and strands of my hair.
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