I told myself I’d drawn a line. I told myself I was safe in Chicago, a thousand miles and an ocean away from their chaos.
I fell asleep believing I was done.
At 3:17 a.m., my phone lit up like an alarm in the dark, and I woke with adrenaline already in my bloodstream, as if my body had been waiting for the impact.
Fifty missed calls.
Twelve voicemails.
Eighty-four text messages stacked on my lock screen like a collapsing wall.
Mom: twenty calls.
Dad: fifteen.
Paul: ten.
Even Monica: five.
The texts were a frantic stream, half-typed, misspelled, all caps.
PICK UP.
EMERGENCY.
POLICE.
ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE MADDIE.
My hands shook as I unlocked the screen. The room felt too quiet, like the air was holding its breath.
I hit call back on my father’s number, because I knew if I started with my mother I’d drown in hysteria.
He answered on the first ring.
