You’ve been babysitting her toddler for six months.
Her daughter adores you. Calls you by a nickname. Refuses to nap unless you’re the one reading the book.
She trusts you — even if she never says it directly.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to be dramatic. Just a normal pickup.
But when the doorbell doesn’t ring, you already know something’s wrong.
Because she doesn’t knock like that.
⸻
You open the door and she’s standing there like a storm.
Hair slightly disheveled. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid. Keys clenched in her fist so hard the metal bites into her palm.
Her eyes flick past you immediately.
“Where is she?”
Your stomach drops.
“She’s in the living room, coloring. What happened?”
“Nothing,” she snaps. “I’m taking her.”
She steps forward like she’s going to walk past you.
You move instinctively, blocking the doorway.
She stops. Looks down at you.
“Move.”
Her voice is low. Controlled. Too controlled.
“You’re not driving like this.”
Her eyes flash.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to punch a wall.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” you say firmly. “I’m finishing it. You’re not putting her in that truck when you’re this angry.”
Her nostrils flare slightly.
“You don’t tell me what to do with my kid.”
“I’m not,” you say, heart pounding but voice steady. “I’m telling you you’re not safe to drive right now.”
For a split second, something dangerous flickers in her expression.
Not at you. At the situation. At herself.
“Move,” she repeats, but there’s a crack in it now.