I watched the sun slowly come up on the horizon. It was a foggy morning, and even as the day broke, the air was hazy. I thought I heard Jack and Emily begin to stir in their rooms, so I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rubbed my face. I figured I might as well get the day started, since sleep was ever elusive. I went downstairs and was surprised to see my kids already awake and snuggled together under a blanket, watching Netflix on the iPad.

“Since when do you guys know how to operate Netflix?” I said.

Jack laughed. “Since I was four.”

I pushed aside all thoughts of how I wasn’t winning Mother of the Year any time soon and went into the kitchen to make coffee. While I listened to it percolate, I pulled out a mug from the cabinet. The front of it read, Good Morning, Gorgeous. Liz had given it to me for my birthday last year.

I looked around and tried to imagine what things were like in her house that morning. Likely, there would be no quiet moments with siblings snuggling under a blanket or a tired but mostly happy mom making coffee. I wondered if her scratches were healing, if she was still on the couch, muttering those awful words. If she was like a statue in the room that they all just ignored, not bothering to help her.

Before I could stop myself, I pulled out my phone and typed out a text to her. I had my interview for the social worker position in a few days, and I’d learned long ago that distraction is better than anticipation, so I should fill my days with things other than worrying about the meeting. But mostly, I was worried about her kids.

I typed and retyped the message, determined to keep it light.

Hey there! Emily and Jack are missing your kiddos and wondered if they could come over for a playdate this afternoon. Wasn’t sure if they would be around or not. Let me know!

I copied Tim on the text and waited for a response. Three dots appeared immediately and then disappeared. Finally, the answer came through, from Tim.

Great. Sending them over now.

I paused, my coffee cup in the air. It was definitely not the afternoon. I craned my neck around to the oven and saw the time: 7:15 a.m. But at least the kids would be safe over here.

—

“Do you guys have Godzilla movies?” Liz’s son Carson asked as he walked through our front door, trailed by Luke. He set his backpack down on the wood floor, water leaking out of the bottom of it. “My lunch is in there.” He shrugged before he scampered off into the family room.