Plan C

Chapter 1

It was over. I sat there, frozen in place, hands trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. The large television opposite me blared the news, each word hitting me like a blow, hard to digest and harder to accept. It was over—over in my lifetime, over in my daughters' lives? A chill ran through me as the memories of childhood flickered in my mind, where these kinds of issues never dared to plague my innocence. I could still smell the remnants of coffee on the table; cold now, but it carried the warmth of moments spent with my grandmother—a time when life felt simpler and safer.

The television's urgent voices grew louder, almost drowning out my racing thoughts, enveloping my senses like a suffocating blanket. I couldn't dare to move. This couldn't be happening now—this must be a dream or a terrible nightmare or some cruel joke—but it wasn't. It couldn't be. The screen displayed stark images in black and white: the reporter's off-white shirt contrasted against his stern features, his slight accent weaving in and out of focus as he delivered news that shattered reality as I knew it. It was over; time for Plan B.

Just then, an unexpected sound jolted me from my daze—the door swung open with a crash that echoed through our quiet home. My daughters were home from school, unaware that the world outside had shifted beneath us like sand underfoot. Their laughter filled the air as they joked with each other—eternal best friends emerging from their afternoon adventures—while I remained an island of silence amidst their joy. They dropped their book bags onto the hardwood floor and hung their keys on the hook by the door; they were safe here.

The girls staggered toward their rooms next, searching for music or toys or anything to distract them from their long day of learning before I would call them back for chores and dinner—dinner! The thought hadn't even crossed my mind until now—a wave of realization crashed over me that they would be hungry and so would our pets waiting eagerly for attention. Responsibilities loomed over me like storm clouds ready to burst.

How do I tell them? What should we do? Staying felt like the right answer to all those unanswered questions swirling around inside me—this home we had built together through hard times felt like our fortress against whatever was looming outside our door. We should stay here; ride this out until someone who understood how something so catastrophic could happen stepped forward with answers. We had food and water; we were safe within these walls that stood strong against uncertainty—the haven I had created for my girls would protect us... right? Maybe it was time to turn off that TV.

Dinner was just laid out on the table when my parents arrived, buzzing with energy and questions aimed at me like arrows. They complained about how they hadn't been able to reach me all afternoon; guilt washed over me as I remembered leaving my phone abandoned on the coffee table next to my forgotten cold cup of coffee.

"Shh!" I hushed them gently as they burst into our home unceremoniously. "The girls don't know anything yet," I whispered under my breath while continuing to serve dinner with hands that still trembled slightly from earlier tension. Our dogs nestled close underfoot, tails wagging expectantly as if sensing something special about this evening—a sense of normalcy that belied what loomed just beyond our walls—all while waiting patiently for one of the girls to pedal them some broccoli from her plate.

In this moment filled with laughter mingling alongside unspoken fears, hope flickered dimly within me—a fragile light against an encroaching darkness—but could we really hold onto it? Would it be enough?

The clicking of their nails against the hardwood floor echoed through the air like a persistent reminder that I had neglected a crucial part of our evening routine—I had forgotten to fill their food dish. The rhythmic sound was a constant, clawing distraction as my father continued his business-like approach to dinner, engaging the girls in conversation about school and attempting to recall the names of their friends. His warmth radiated through his questions, but my heart was heavy with a weight he couldn't sense.