June’s Point of View
The house felt like a clock waiting to explode.
Every creak of floorboard, every muffled clink from the kitchen, every silent shift of the curtains became a punctuation in my plan. I sat pressed against the back of my bedroom door for hours, listening as though sound itself might betray me. Daniel moved through the house like a ghost tonight—calm, careful, apparently occupied with packing. There were no heavy footsteps, no approaching shadow at my door. Quiet meant opportunity.
Outside the window the sky had gone the ugly pink of sunset and then bled into purple. My things were packed and stacked in a neat, ridiculous little island in the corner: a duffel, a small carry-on, a scrap of faded blanket I kept for the baby. I kept rubbing the small round inside me—a stea
