My 4-year-old told me: “Daddy takes me to a woman’s new house.” I followed them, but what I saw through the window shattered my heart.

Later, while Mia napped, I sat staring at a drawing I’d asked her to make. It wasn’t a child’s scribble; it was a blueprint. A red roof. Pink flowers in the garden. A tall figure labeled “Daddy” and a woman with long brown hair. The detail was too precise to be a fantasy. I recognized the slope of the hill and the quiet street—it was a neighborhood only fifteen minutes away.