Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
By nine o’clock the next morning, I was standing in my suburban kitchen, staring at the empty wooden key hook near the door. The house was quiet, the triplets asleep in the nursery down the hall, their steady breathing coming through the baby monitor on the counter.
I picked up my phone and dialed Ryan’s number, my thumb twirling my gold wedding ring around my finger as the line rang.
The call connected on the fourth ring, filled instantly with the sound of rushing wind and the rhythmic crash of waves.
“Ryan,” I said, keeping my voice deliberate. “I need my car keys.”
“Why are you calling so early?” he asked. His voice was loud, competing with the background noise of the ocean.
“The spare set of keys is gone from the hook,” I said. “The pediatrician appointment was yesterday, and I had to call my mother to drive us in her Buick.”
He let out a sharp, dismissive sound that rasped through the speaker.
