Richard Whitman’s heart raced as the taxi pulled up to his two-story home in suburban Chicago. After three grueling weeks of back-to-back meetings in London, sleepless nights, and endless flights, he was finally home. The thought of seeing his family—his seven-year-old daughter Emily, his toddler Alex, and his wife Vanessa—filled him with warmth and anticipation.
He pictured Emily running into his arms, Alex babbling excitedly from his high chair, and Vanessa greeting him with a smile. These visions had carried him through the exhaustion of work and travel, giving him purpose beyond spreadsheets and contracts.
Stepping out of the cab with gifts in hand—a storybook for Emily, a teddy bear for Alex—he felt a mixture of relief and joy. Finally, home.
But when he inserted the key into the lock, the sound of shattering glass stopped him cold. Then came a high-pitched, trembling sob.
Richard’s chest tightened. Every instinct screamed danger. Dropping his suitcase, he rushed inside. What he saw froze him in his tracks. Emily sat on the cold tile floor, milk spilling through her hair and dress, clutching Alex protectively. Above them, Vanessa loomed, holding an empty jug with a face twisted in rage—an expression Richard had never seen before.
“Please, Mom… I’m sorry,” Emily whispered, her small voice breaking.
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