Husband's Betrayal, My Loss

My second-graders were working on their art projects when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, focused on helping Emma with her watercolor technique. The classroom hummed with the pleasant chaos of twenty-eight children creating masterpieces with more enthusiasm than skill.

"Mrs. Hayes, look!" Tommy held up a paint-splattered paper. "It's my dog!"

I smiled, squinting to make out the blob that supposedly resembled a golden retriever. "That's wonderful, Tommy. I can really see the—"

My phone buzzed again. And again. And again. A cold finger of dread traced down my spine.

No one called repeatedly unless something was wrong.

"Keep working, everyone," I said, my voice suddenly tight. "I need to check something."

I stepped into the hallway, pulling my phone from my pocket. Six missed calls from numbers I didn't recognize, and one voicemail. With trembling fingers, I pressed play.

"Mrs. Hayes? This is Officer Ramirez with Chicago PD. There's been an incident at Sunshine Daycare. Please call me back immediately."

The world tilted sideways. Sunshine Daycare. Where my mother-in-law Eleanor had taken Lily for their Thursday afternoon playdate before picking her up. My knees nearly buckled.

I called the number back, pressing the phone so hard against my ear it hurt.

"Officer Ramirez."

"This is Sarah Hayes. You called about Sunshine Daycare? My daughter—"

"Mrs. Hayes." His voice dropped. "There's been a shooting. Your daughter and an older woman—"

"My mother-in-law," I whispered.

"They've been transported to Chicago General. You should get there right away."

I don't remember hanging up. I don't remember bursting back into my classroom, wild-eyed, telling my teaching assistant something had happened. I don't remember grabbing my purse or running down the hallway.

I do remember standing in the school parking lot, my hands shaking so badly I dropped my keys twice before managing to unlock my car. Shooting. The word echoed in my head like a terrible bell. Not my Lily. Not my sweet, yellow-loving, story-obsessed five-year-old. Not Eleanor, who baked cookies shaped like dinosaurs because they made Lily giggle.

Michael. I needed to call Michael.

I fumbled with my phone as I started the car, hitting his contact. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

"Michael, it's me. There's been a shooting at Lily's daycare. She and your mom are being taken to Chicago General. Please call me back immediately."

I pulled out of the parking lot, my vision blurring with tears. I called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.

Where was he? He should have been at the hospital—his hospital—doing rounds. Why wasn't he answering?

At a red light, I tried texting: *Emergency. Lily hurt. Call NOW.*

Three minutes later, as I swerved through traffic, my phone dinged.

*In important meeting. Can't talk. Don't disturb unless absolutely necessary.*

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at the screen in disbelief, my throat closing up.

*Michael, there's been a SHOOTING. Lily and your mother are hurt. They're bringing them to YOUR hospital.*

No response.

I called again, sobbing now, barely able to see the road. Voicemail.

When I finally screeched into the emergency room parking lot, I abandoned my car half in a space, not caring if it got towed. I ran through the automatic doors, the antiseptic hospital smell hitting me like a wall.

"My daughter," I gasped to the receptionist. "Lily Hayes. There was a shooting—"

Before she could answer, the ambulance bay doors burst open. Paramedics rushed in, pushing two gurneys. On the smaller one, a tiny form lay motionless, an oxygen mask covering most of her face. Blood—so much blood—stained the sheet.

"Lily!" I screamed, lunging forward.

A nurse caught my arm. "Ma'am, you need to let them work."

"That's my daughter! And my mother-in-law!" I pointed to the second gurney where Eleanor lay, her silver hair matted with red.

"Are you her mother?" A paramedic asked, not slowing.

"Yes!"

"We're taking her to Trauma One. Your husband—is he here?"

"He works here. He's a doctor here. Dr. Michael Hayes. I can't reach him."

The nurse—her nametag read Maria—exchanged a look with the paramedic I couldn't interpret. "We'll find him. Wait here."

I watched as they wheeled my family through the double doors, disappearing from sight. My phone felt heavy in my hand, the screen showing fifteen unanswered calls to my husband.

I stood alone in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers, my world collapsing around me.