This piece was inspired by a prompt I found on the R/WRITINGPROMPTS Community on Reddit.

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“1 Eester Eg, 1 Famlie Mimbur”

The terribly spelled message is scribbled in pink magic marker. Some bored-ass kid must’ve left it on my doorstep. I roll my eyes, stick the note back inside the plastic egg, and toss it in the trash as I step inside. The door swings shut behind me.

Glancing around at the decorations in the kitchen, I smile. Today’s gonna be a good day.

The smell of broccoli casserole fills the air as I move to the oven. I slide out the rack. The top’s perfect—golden brown, bubbling with cheese—just the way my husband likes it. I pull it out with an oven mitt and set it on the counter.

A glance at the clock makes me frown. Speaking of my husband, shouldn’t he be home by now? He just went to the quick mart down the street—and he’s been gone nearly forty-five minutes. That’s odd.

I shake my head, brushing off the creeping unease. He’s probably just distracted, buying shit we can’t afford again. I grab my phone from my jeans pocket and dial his number.

Two rings. Three. Four.

“Hello.” His voice hits my ear, and relief floods me—until I realize it’s just his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Thomas. Sorry I can’t get to the phone right now. Leave your name and number, and I’ll call you back.”

Beep.

My grip tightens around the phone as I begin to pace the kitchen tile. “Tommy? It’s 3:45. The girls’ll be home from school any minute, and guests are gonna start showing up soon.”

I pause, trying not to sound too pushy. With everything we’ve been through lately, it doesn’t take much to set him off. “I just… I don’t know. I hope you’re okay, that’s all.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. “Don’t forget the barbecue sauce. Love you.”

I snap the phone shut before the tears can fall. But the second it’s back in my pocket, I let them go. I wipe my face with my sleeve, then glance down at the casserole. I wring my hands, trying to shove the thoughts away—but they swarm anyway.

What if he’s with her again? What if he’s not coming home?

Running a hand through my thick blonde curls, I head to the front door. The school bus should be here any second. I lean against the doorframe, waiting. A flash of yellow turns the corner, and I force a smile.

But the bus doesn’t stop. It drives right the fuck past my house.

Now my heart’s really pounding. Where the fuck are my girls?

I bolt outside, nearly tripping down the steps of the deck. My bare feet slap hard against the pavement as I take off after the bus, waving my arms like a maniac.

“Hey! Hey, stop!” I scream.

The bus doesn’t even slow down.

I double over in the middle of the street, hands on my knees, lungs on fire. A sharp pain slices through my side. What the fuck is going on?

After a few shaky breaths, I jog back inside and slam the door behind me. I call the school next.

A familiar voice answers. It’s Principal Johnson.

“Sandy Brook Elementary. This is Principal Johnson speaking. How can I help you?” she sings.

My mouth opens, then closes. Finally, I manage, “Mrs. Johnson, this is Abigail Mason—Kaylee and Amelia’s mother.”

“Oh! Hello, dear. Is everything alright?”

I glance around my eerily silent home. “No. Actually, it’s not. My girls didn’t get off the bus today. Did they miss it? Are they still at school?”

Her tone changes. “No, ma’am. Your husband picked them up. I assumed you knew.”

My heart slams against my ribs. The world shifts. My face drains of color as I squeeze the phone.

“Oh, I must’ve forgotten,” I say quickly, trying not to sound suspicious. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

I hang up.

Everything feels blurry. I float upstairs, my feet moving without direction. From the nightstand drawer, I pull out the gun and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans. My thoughts flash back to that stupid fucking Easter egg.

That bastard thinks he’s clever. I’ll show him one fucking family member.

I guess he figured the misspelled message would throw me off. It did—for a minute. But I’m not as stupid as he thinks I am. He really believes he and that homewrecker are going to raise my children?

Over my dead fucking body.

I slip on my Chucks and head downstairs. Grabbing the notebook from the kitchen table, I rip to a blank page and scrawl a note for the party guests. I tape it to the front door:

Sorry. Party’s canceled.

Then I get in my car, slam it into gear, and tear down the road—spinning wheels and smoke in my wake.