I’ve been with my husband, Robert, for nine years. Long enough to know his habits, like the way he left cabinets slightly open or how he checked the locks twice before bed.
We had a seven-year-old daughter, Ava. Our routine was generally quiet, and we had the kind of life that felt steady enough to stop questioning.
It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was stable.
Or so I thought.
We had the kind of life that felt steady.
That Saturday, Robert and Ava were out riding the teacups at Disneyland.