At 4:00 a.m., my phone vibrated on the nightstand with a violence that felt out of place in the stillness of the bedroom. It wasn’t a call, which somehow made it worse. Calls allow for tone, hesitation, even regret. This was just a message, a cold rectangle of light cutting through the dark. When I read it, I had to read it again, slowly, as if my eyes were lying to me. “Come pick up your daughter at the T4 parking lot. We don’t want her anymore.” That was it. No explanation. No apology. No concern for the grandchildren sleeping wherever they had been left.
Just a sentence, efficient and cruel, written by someone who believed he was finished with a problem and wanted it removed like unwanted furniture. My daughter Elena had been enduring far more than she ever admitted, and I had known it. I had seen the gradual dimming of her spirit, the way she apologized too often, the way she checked her phone nervously before speaking. But even knowing all that, I never imagined her husband would reduce her to a discarded object in the middle of the night.
