The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the driveway in warm amber, when I pulled into the yard after a grueling day at the office. Usually, homecoming means soft sounds of life—TV hums, dinner clatters. But tonight, something on the front porch froze me mid-turn of the key.
There stood my four-year-old daughter, Lily, fully outfitted for a grand adventure. Bright pink backpack snug on her shoulders, glittery rolling suitcase in hand, cheeks flushed, eyes shiny and rimmed with red. Something had shaken her.
“Daddy,” she said, voice trembling but firm, “I am leaving. I am leaving this house forever.”
My heart skipped. “Leaving? Lily, why? What happened?”
She scowled, lower lip quivering, and delivered her verdict like a tiny court prosecutor: “I can’t live with your wife anymore. She is too much.”
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