I'm Not Ready

I pushed through the unlocked door shouting for my tween daughters.

"Kerry, Christine!"

Silence greeted me.

Heart in my throat, I raced in and out of the vacant kitchen with my husband on my heels, fear flickering across his face. We sprinted upstairs on legs encased in concrete. Our cries echoed through empty rooms.

In the main bedroom, light crept from under the bathroom door. Reaching as if forced to pet a snake, I flung it open.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" I spurted to the crouched forms of my girls.

"We heard a noise," Christine squeaked.

With trembling arms, I hugged them. I scolded my husband with my eyes, no leaving them alone—we're not ready.