The afternoon began wrapped in the soft, unremarkable comfort of routine, the kind of day that blends seamlessly into memory because nothing about it demands attention. My daughter came home from school lighter than usual, her shoes kicked off at the door, her backpack dropped with careless relief onto the floor. There was an easy smile on her face, the kind that appears when a child feels safe, finished with responsibility, and already dreaming of small rewards. She went straight to the freezer without asking, because she didn’t need permission for this particular ritual.

Chocolate ice cream had been her favorite since she was old enough to pronounce the word. It was familiar, dependable, and comforting in a way only childhood favorites can be. The sound of the wrapper crinkling filled the kitchen, blending with the hum of the refrigerator and the muted noise of traffic outside. The scent of cocoa drifted into the air, warm and sweet, triggering nothing but ordinary associations. I wiped the counter, half-listening to her happy murmurs as she took the first few bites. There was no tension, no warning, no sense that the day was about to fracture.