The doorbell rings at seven in the morning on a Tuesday.
I'm deeply, blissfully asleep—cocooned in blankets and unicorn pajamas and the lingering warmth of dreams I can't quite remember.
It rings again. And again. Three times. Long. Insistent. The kind of ring that says I know you're in there and I'm not leaving until you answer.
I bury my face in my pillow and hope whoever it is will give up. A mistake. A wrong address. A delivery person who'll leave the package at the door.
The doorbell rings again. Four times. Five. Now accompanied by knocking—sharp and rhythmic, like someone tapping out a message in Morse code I don't know how to read.
I drag myself out of bed. The cold marble floor meets my bare feet. My hair is a disaster. My unicorn pajamas are wrinkled beyond recognition.
I don't care.
Whoever is at my door at seven in the morning deserves to see me like this. Deserves to witness the full chaos of a woman torn from sleep against her will.
