The next morning, the sun filtered through the small window of the storeroom, casting long shadows across the floor. But the room was empty. Anita was gone, and so was our son. My heart dropped to my stomach as the realization hit me—she had left. I frantically searched the house, hoping she might be somewhere within, but deep down, I knew she had gone.
Outside, the world continued as usual, unaware of the turmoil that had taken hold of my life. The chirping of birds and the sound of children playing in the distance felt surreal. My mother, still in her morning routine, noticed my distress and looked at me with a mixture of confusion and judgment.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, obliviously.
