Interlude: The Missing Message

Her car rolled slowly into the driveway, its headlights briefly washing across the front of the house before dimming as the engine shut off. The night had grown quiet, the kind of late hour where most of the houses had already gone dark, and the streetlights hummed softly over an empty road.

Stephany stepped out of the driver’s seat and closed the door with a tired push of her hip. She paused beside the car, fishing her phone from her pocket and squinting at the screen.

God, it was late. Much later than she had meant to be.

With a quiet sigh she locked the car, the soft beep echoing faintly through the still air, and made her way up the short path to the front door. Her keys jingled softly as she slipped one into the lock, turning it with practiced familiarity before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The warmth of the house wrapped around her immediately.

She nudged the door shut behind her and slipped out of her shoes, leaving them beside the others gathered neatly near the entrance before padding further inside.

The living room beyond was dim, illuminated almost entirely by the pale flicker of the television. A sitcom played on the screen, its overly bright colors clashed with the gloom of the room while an obnoxious laugh track erupted every few seconds, filling the otherwise quiet house with bursts of artificial amusement.

The room itself looked lived-in but subdued. A worn couch sat facing the television, a coffee table cluttered with a few magazines and an empty glass. A standing lamp in the corner remained switched off, leaving the shifting light of the TV to throw long shadows across the walls. Family photos dotted the shelves and mantle, though their details were hard to make out in the dim glow.

Stephany stepped into the room—

“What time do you call this? I was worried sick!”

A voice boomed out suddenly.

Stephany startled slightly and turned toward the couch.

Her father sat there, half sunk into the cushions, the television light flickering across his face. He looked every bit like someone who had intended to go to bed hours ago. He wore a simple vest and a pair of loose shorts, the kind people put on when they were done with the day. His thin brown hair had begun to recede at the front, and streaks of gray stood out even in the low light. A neatly kept moustache framed his upper lip while the rest of his face remained clean-shaven.

He was a little pudgy around the stomach, but overall, he carried himself like a man who still took care of himself — posture straight despite the late hour, arms crossed as he fixed her with a look that was equal parts relief and irritation.

“Wha– I already messaged you earlier!”

“Well, I never got any message.”

“Well… sorry? Check your phone. I’m getting something to eat.”

She turned and stomped toward the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a jar of mayonnaise and a packet of ham before setting them down on the counter with more **** than necessary.

“You haven’t messaged me since last week!” he called after her.

Stephany reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

“Yes I have, I messaged you be—”

She stopped mid-sentence as the screen lit her face.

Her message history sat there, plain as day.

No message.

Her brow furrowed. She scrolled up once, then again, her thumb slowing as she realised her mistake.

But she knew she’d sent it.

“I… huh.”

She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Oh. I guess it didn’t send. Sorry for worrying you. But you do realize I’m a grown woman now, right? You can’t keep sitting up worrying about when I’m going to come home.”

“I wouldn’t worry so much if you at least told me what you were doing.”

“And I thought I did!” she said, grabbing a knife from the drawer and spreading mayonnaise across a slice of bread. “I already said sorry — the message didn’t send.”

“So what were you doing out so late?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Look, I know you told me not to, but I went to Jason’s to talk with him. And before you say anything, it’s his birthday soon, so I wanted to see if he’d maybe want to take a break from all that stuff he’s obsessed with.”

She glanced up from the counter.

Her father was staring at her, with his brow raised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said defensively. “I just thought it would be worth a shot.”

His brows pulled together a little tighter.

“Who’s Jason?”

The knife in her hand stopped moving.