I got up carefully and headed to the living room. In the dim light, I scrawled a brief note to my husband, explaining where I was going and why. I wanted him to understand, but I also knew that he might feel caught between loyalty to his parents and to us. I left the note on the table, hoping he’d find it before his parents started spinning their own version of events.

The next morning, Lily and I slipped out before the sun fully rose. The air was crisp, hinting at a chill that would deepen by fall. We drove in silence, the road unfurling like a ribbon ahead of us. With each mile, the weight of the previous day’s events lifted ever so slightly, replaced by the promise of a fresh start.

Our destination was a quaint little bed and breakfast by the seaside — a place I had visited once with friends. I remembered its warm, welcoming aura, the kind of place where laughter echoed off the walls and everyone was treated like family. It seemed like the perfect refuge, a place where Lily could rediscover joy and where I could breathe.