“Lily,” I called softly, finding her sitting on the edge of her bed, her small bag already packed. She looked up, eyes full of questions — the kind only a parent can answer, the kind that demands reassurance when the world seems tilted off its axis.

“We’re going to take a little break,” I told her, kneeling down to her level, “just you and me. How does that sound?”

Her nod was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the solidness of her small frame, and whispered, “I promise everything’s going to be okay.”

We left the house with just our overnight bags. As the car pulled away from the curb, I cast a glance back at the place that, in the span of a few hours, had become foreign to me. I drove with the radio low, a background hum of familiar pop songs that did their best to fill the silence.

At the hotel, I checked us in quickly. The receptionist offered us a small smile, but I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. The room was just as advertised: simple, clean, and quiet. It was the quiet I needed, but this time the comfortable kind, wrapping around us like a balm.

Lily sat on the bed, peering out of the window at the city lights. “Are we going to live here now, Mom?”

“No, sweetheart,” I replied, sitting beside her, “just for tonight. We’re taking a little adventure, okay?”

Her brow furrowed, but she nodded again, trusting me in that unfiltered way children do.

As she drifted off to sleep, I stared at my phone illuminating the room with its persistent glow. I knew I couldn’t avoid the conversation forever, but tonight wasn’t the night for it. Tonight was about Lily and about reclaiming our space, our peace. My decision was made — I would set clear boundaries with my in-laws, and as for what came next, well, that was a problem for tomorrow.

For now, in the cocoon of the hotel room, the world was just big enough for us. And that was all we needed.