(Rebecca's POV)
I end the call.
My thumb hits the red circle. The screen goes dark. I set the phone facedown beside the stack of printouts, the cold coffee, Connie's fruit bowl.
The kitchen is quiet. The refrigerator hums. The faucet doesn't drip — Connie fixed it last week.
I wait.
For the guilt. The way it always comes — heavy, automatic, an animal trained to a whistle. For six years, every time I put distance between me and that house, the guilt arrives on schedule. A good mother doesn't leave. A good wife tries harder. A good woman doesn't hang up on the father of her child.
I stand at the counter. Both hands flat. I breathe.
It doesn't come.
I wait longer. I give it room. I leave the door open the way I used to leave Jack's door cracked at night — listening, ready.
Nothing.
