Jackson

I barely made it through the front door before I knew something was wrong.

The house was too quiet.

Not the normal kind of quiet — not Mom-at-work quiet, not Jessa-in-her-room quiet.

This was the kind of quiet that felt like walking into a storm.

Then I saw her.

Mom was standing in the living room, arms crossed so tight it looked like she was holding herself together by force alone. Her purse was still on the chair like she hadn’t even taken a second to breathe after coming ...