As I remained silent, Henry tentatively questioned, "Hello? Nicole, are you there?"
I was about to respond.
Suddenly, a soft yet startlingly clear voice, unmistakably feminine, broke the silence with its gentle whisper.
"If she doesn't come, then..."
The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.
"Who are you with?" I asked Henry.
His reply was tinged with guilt, "I'm alone. You must've misheard. I was just watching a video."
I scoffed, feigning agreement. "Alright, wait for me. I'm coming to get you."
Henry seemed relieved.
Relief washed over his voice, softening his tone.
"Okay, I'll wait for you here."
After disconnecting the call, I silenced my phone, tossed it aside, and cocooned myself in the comfort of the blankets. My daughter was nestled close. Sleep claimed us once more.
Pick him up? Not a chance.
This time, my focus was singular: to shield my daughter and myself from harm.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzed incessantly.
Yet, sleep held me in its gentle grasp.
Dawn broke, and I awoke to the natural light, refreshed. After the morning rituals, I checked my phone.
Eighty-seven missed calls from Henry lit up my screen, accompanied by an avalanche of text messages.