Then I walked barefoot down the hallway, my heart pounding so hard my chest ached.
The bathroom door was ajar, just enough.
I peeked inside.
And in a second, the man I had married was gone. Mark was crouched by the bathtub with a kitchen timer in one hand and a paper cup in the other, talking to Sophie in a voice so calm it chilled me to the bone.
At that moment, I grabbed my phone and called the police.
I called out, my voice trembling, trying not to shout, while still peering through the crack.
I didn’t say everything.
I just repeated my address and asked them to come immediately.
Mark didn’t hear me at first.
He kept talking to Sophie with practiced patience, like a man who believes his every gesture deserves trust, even when it already smells like a lie.
It could be a picture of children.
She was curled up in the bathtub, her knees drawn up to her chest.
She wasn’t crying.
That’s what broke my heart the most.
She looked like a child trained to obey.
When I pushed open the door, Mark turned his head slowly, not quite startled.
As if even then he still thought he could explain everything and continue to be in charge.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
