I shoved my phone charger inside it.
Then I reached into the cabinet above the microwave and pulled down the blue emergency folder my mother had made me keep after Lily was born.
At the time, I had laughed at her.
She had not laughed back.
“Women should always know where the papers are,” she told me.
I had rolled my eyes because I was young enough then to think love was protection.
Inside the folder were Lily’s birth certificate, her Social Security card, insurance cards, passport copies, two bank statements, and a county clerk copy of our marriage license.
The label on the folder said DOCUMENTS in my own handwriting.
That handwriting looked like it belonged to someone who still believed emergencies announced themselves loudly.
At 7:23 a.m., I took a picture of Derek’s printed flight itinerary.
It was still under his mug.
I took another photo of the mug itself, because I could see the smear of his thumb near the handle and I did not know what might matter later.
I was not being brave.
I was being methodical because fear without a method becomes noise.
I took Lily’s backpack from the hook by the laundry room.
I put in her inhaler, a granola bar, a water bottle, and the stuffed rabbit she slept with every night.
She hovered beside me, shaking.
“Hurry, Mommy.”
“I am.”
“He said today.”
“I know.”
Those two words hurt more than I expected.
I know.
A mother should not have to tell her child that she knows her father may be dangerous.
I did not take coats.
I did not take extra clothes.
I did not take the family photo from the hallway, the one where Derek’s hand rested on my shoulder like he had been placed there by God and paperwork.
In that picture, Lily was four.
She had a popsicle stain on her dress and a gap between her front teeth.
Derek looked happy.
I used to look at that photo and think we had survived a hard season.
Now I wondered how many hard seasons had actually been warnings.
I slid my phone into my back pocket.
I kept one hand on Lily’s shoulder.
We crossed the hallway toward the front door.
The house had never felt so awake.
The floor creaked under my foot.
The furnace clicked.
Somewhere inside the wall, a pipe gave a little knock.
Lily flinched at every sound.
I reached for the doorknob.
That was when the lock clicked.
Not from my side.
From the porch.
Lily stopped breathing beside me.
Then someone on the other side of the front door whispered my name.
“Emily.”