My duffel slipped from my hand when I saw my four-year-old daughter sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching a dirty cereal bowl.
“Mama?”Her voice was so small I almost didn’t recognize it.“Mama, are you really here?”For six months, I had imagined my homecoming a hundred different ways.Ella running toward me.Ryan standing behind her.Maybe balloons taped crookedly around the doorway because my husband had never been good at decorating.Maybe my favorite takeout warming on the counter.Maybe Ella wearing the purple dress she insisted was her “princess uniform.”Instead, the kitchen smelled stale.There were dishes stacked in the sink.A carton of milk sat open on the table.Crumbs covered the floor.And my daughter looked thinner than she had during our last video call.Idropped to my knees.
Sweetheart.”
Ella scrambled toward me so fast the cereal bowl rolled across the tile.