Veronica softly hummed the lullaby that always soothed her daughter to sleep, her voice a gentle murmur as she folded the tiny clothes one by one. Her hands moved with practiced tenderness, smoothing each piece before stacking them neatly in her arms.
She padded quietly down the hallway, heading for Esther’s bedroom. But just as her hand brushed the doorknob, a sharp clatter rang out from the bathroom.
She froze. The noise shattered the stillness of the house.
Veronica turned her head slowly, her heart thudding once, then again, harder. Her steps toward the bathroom were slow and cautious. She didn’t want to startle Esther—perhaps she didn’t want to startle herself.
With a soft creak, she nudged the door open just enough to peek inside.
What she saw made her breath catch.
Her stomach dropped. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
In that one instant, Veronica knew—something was terribly wrong.
The Smith family had lived in Avalon Glade for generations, nestled in a town that seemed immune to the chaos of the outside world. Veronica and James had spent fifteen steady years together, building a life full of warmth, tradition, and love.
Their two sons, Victor and Arthur, were the heartbeat of their home—mischievous, loud, joyful. Life in Avalon Glade was, by most accounts, perfect.
But beneath Veronica’s composed exterior lingered a quiet ache, a space in her heart that even the joy of her sons couldn’t fill.