When my daughter was rushed to the hospital, I thought the worst was over. Then the doctor pulled me aside, gave me an envelope, and told me to vanish with my grandchildren before nightfall.

My throat closed instantly. I remembered that week. Emily had called sounding nervous and breathless, saying she was cleaning the kitchen. In the background, Brent’s voice sounded overly cheerful while asking who she was speaking to. She ended the call seconds later.

I opened the envelope again. On top rested a letter written in Emily’s handwriting.

Mom, if you are reading this, it means I failed to leave safely.

I covered my mouth before the sound escaping me became a scream. Dr. Carter lowered his voice further. “She was documenting everything. She was terrified that if she left without proof, he would get custody.”