Kevin’s world tilted when his kindergartener called him at work. “Mommy’s gone,” Alice whispered. The house felt hollow without Laurel’s laughter, her absence screaming from every room.
A single note held the only clue: “I need time.” Kevin’s detective work uncovered Laurel’s quiet rebellion—against routine, against expectation. Then, TV revealed her truth: there she was, belting out a ballad like her life depended on it.
Parenting solo was terrifying, but Alice became his compass. When she asked about Mommy, Kevin chose radical honesty. “She’s being brave,” he said. Brave like Alice learning to ride a bike. Brave like him, learning to let go.
As they danced to Disney songs in mismatched pajamas, Kevin understood: sometimes love means holding on tight. Sometimes, it means opening your hands.
