The morning was a blur of half-packed lunches, mismatched socks, and a clock that seemed to be moving twice as fast as usual. You were trying to get your six-year-old daughter into her jacket, rushing so she wouldn’t miss the school bus. She squirmed out of your reach for the third time, giggling — but you, stressed and distracted, grabbed for her arm a little too hard.

Her giggle stopped short.

You immediately let go, heart sinking when you saw her wince and cradle her arm against her chest. A faint, reddish mark was already blooming on her pale skin.

Before you could say anything, Addison appeared in the doorway, still barefoot, hair damp from the shower, eyes sharp as they locked onto the scene.

"What the hell are you doing?" she snapped, voice low but dangerous.

"It was an accident, Addie, I swear," you said, backing up a step. "I wasn’t thinking— I didn’t mean—"

"She’s six," Addison bit out, crossing the room to kneel by your daughter, inspecting the forming bruise with a doctor's practiced hands but a mother's broken heart. "You can’t just grab her when you're frustrated!"

The air between you both was thick, crackling with anger and guilt. You opened your mouth to defend yourself — to explain the panic, the rushing, the stress — but Addison just shook her head, standing up and pushing past you.

"Get your keys," she said coldly. "I’ll take her today."

Your daughter clung to Addison’s hand tightly, glancing back at you with wide, confused eyes as Addison grabbed her own bag and slammed the front door behind her.

And just like that, the house was silent.

Silent and painfully empty.