Surveillance
Tuesday. Emily dropped Sophia at tutoring and shopped for the cheapest groceries. Total: $32.50—safe. On the way to pick up Sophia, Michael called.
“You’re slow,” were his first words.
“I’m driving,” she muttered.
“Don’t make excuses. Where are you? Send a photo.”
She pulled over, hands shaking, and sent one.
Confirmed. Next time, two rings.
That night he called four more times. The last at 2:00 a.m. She missed the first ring.
“Why didn’t you answer immediately?” His voice was ice.
“I’m sorry, I was sleeping.”
“Write a letter of apology. Five hundred words. Email it to me now.” Click.
Emily sat in darkness, tears sliding down her cheeks. From across the room came a whisper: “Mom? Are you okay?” Sophia was awake, watching.
“I’m fine,” Emily lied. “Dad’s just worried.” It’s love, she told herself, but the words tasted like ash. She didn’t see the glow of Sophia’s phone as her daughter hid it under the blanket.
In the kitchen, Emily typed: I deeply regret my slow response. I will strive to be more vigilant… She hit send. Emptiness.
On the stairs, Sophia’s face was a mask of quiet resolve.
