I gripped the phone tighter. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“She took her suitcase. She hugged me and said, ‘Wait for Daddy.’ Then she drove away.”

I barely remembered the next few moments—grabbing my keys, bolting from my office, and driving home like a man possessed.

When I burst through the door, the house was eerily silent. Laurel was gone. No note. No sign of where she went.

Alice was curled up on the couch, her small body wrapped in a blanket. She had cried herself to sleep.

I swallowed hard.

When she finally woke up, her big, innocent eyes met mine.

“Daddy… where’s Mommy?”

I had no answer.

Then I saw it.

A white envelope on the kitchen counter.

My hands trembled as I tore it open.

Kevin,

I can’t live like this anymore. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. But you’ll find out what happened to me in a week.

Laurel

I read the words three times, but they didn’t make sense.

She was gone.

No explanation. No warning.

For a week, I lived in hell, waiting for whatever she meant by “You’ll find out what happened to me in a week.”

And then, on the seventh day, I found out.

That morning, I turned on the TV.

The news droned on in the background—weather updates, a new grocery store opening—until suddenly, her face appeared on the screen.

My breath caught.

At first, I wasn’t sure it was her. But then the camera zoomed in, and I saw those familiar eyes, that soft smile—though now, it looked weighted with worry.

Laurel stood outside a local building I vaguely recognized, speaking into a microphone.

“I just want other people to know they’re not alone,” she said. “Sometimes, we live behind closed doors with problems we feel we can’t share… but we have to start talking about them.”

The reporter’s voice cut in:

“Laurel Eastwood, a volunteer with the Helping Hands Community Center, has come forward to share her experiences with anxiety and stress. She hopes her story encourages others to speak openly about their mental health.”

I felt like the floor had vanished beneath me.

Mental health? Laurel had been struggling?

I never knew.

I’d been so busy—working late, rushing from one meeting to another—that I hadn’t noticed my own wife was drowning.

Had she tried to tell me? Had I just not been listening?

Beside me, Alice stared at the screen, her spoon frozen in midair over her cereal.

“That’s Mommy,” she said softly, her voice breaking.

I pulled her into my arms, my throat tightening.

“Yes, sweetheart. That’s Mommy. And we’re going to find her.”

That afternoon, I called the community center.

A receptionist picked up, her voice polite but guarded. “I’m sorry, we can’t give out personal details—”

“Please,” I interrupted. “I’m her husband. I just need to talk to her.”

The woman hesitated, then softened. “She’ll be here tonight for a fundraiser.”

That was all I needed.

That evening, I left Alice with my sister and drove straight to the event.

The moment I stepped into the community center, a wave of nervous energy hit me. People milled about, sipping coffee, flipping through brochures about stress and burnout.

And then, I saw her.

Laurel stood near the front, gently guiding an elderly woman to a seat.

She looked… different.

Not just thinner, but lighter, freer. Like she’d stepped out of a shadow and into the sun.

Our eyes met across the room.

She froze.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, slowly, she crossed the room, each step hesitant.

“Kevin,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You actually came.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I saw you on the news. Laurel… I had no idea.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “I tried to tell you. But every time I brought it up, you were working late or too exhausted to talk. I started to feel… invisible. Like a ghost in my own home.”