I came home eleven minutes earlier than I was supposed to, and that eleven minutes saved my wife.
I didn’t know that when I opened the front door.
I only knew that I’d forgotten a blue folder.
It was one of those stupid little things that normally wouldn’t matter. A document wallet I’d left on the hall table that morning. I needed it for a meeting the following day, and I’d already driven halfway to work before remembering it.
So at 7:41 that Thursday evening, I turned the car around.
Our house was supposed to be empty.
My wife, Maia, had told me she was having dinner with my mother and a few relatives.
I had not liked the idea.
Not because I thought anything terrible would happen.
Because Maia had been eight months pregnant, exhausted, and increasingly uncomfortable, and family dinners with my mother had a way of becoming three-hour examinations of everything Maia did wrong.
But my mother had insisted.
“Everyone wants to see her before the baby comes.”
So I’d kissed Maia that morning, told her I’d be home after work, and left.
When I unlocked the front door that evening, I expected to hear voices.
Instead, I heard silence.
