For one suspended moment, the words refused to connect into meaning, as if my brain rejected them on principle. The projector hummed softly behind me while a spreadsheet glowed on the wall and someone kept talking about quarterly variance like the world had not just split open.
Then my body understood before my mind could catch up.
I stood so quickly my chair rolled backward and struck the wall behind me with a dull thud. “I have to go,” I said to no one in particular, though I did not wait for acknowledgment before grabbing my bag.
By the time I reached the elevator, my hands were already shaking in a way that made it hard to press the button.
The rain outside came down in thick sheets, hammering the windshield so hard my wipers struggled to keep up, and every red light felt like a personal attack. My thoughts narrowed into something sharp and animal, stripped of everything except urgency and fear.
My daughter was six years old.
Six years old, still asking me to check under her bed some nights, still mixing up left and right when she put on her shoes, still reaching for my hand in parking lots because the world felt too large. And my parents had left her alone at school in a storm.
When I pulled up to the gate, Mrs. Callahan stood there holding a wide black umbrella over my child’s head. My daughter looked impossibly small beneath it, her curls plastered to her cheeks and her backpack dark with rain.
