It wasn’t a game.It wasn’t imagination.It was fear—raw, urgent, and far too real for a child her age.I was at the kitchen sink, rinsing a coffee mug, pretending the quiet in the house meant peace. Thirty minutes earlier, Ethan had kissed my forehead, dragged his suitcase across the floor, and promised he’d be back Sunday night.He’d smiled.Not warmly.Relieved.Now Mia stood in the doorway, barefoot, shaking.“Why would we leave?” I asked, trying to keep things light.