My husband cheated. I packed my kids and drove to my parents’ house. My father opened the door, looked at my three children standing behind me, and slowly closed it. My brother said no space. My sister called me impulsive. I picked up that garbage bag, walked back to my car, and I whispered 3 words..

My brother offered a derisive chuckle from the staircase. My sister materialized to deliver a condescending lecture on marital endurance. And as I stood there, absorbing the shockwave of their betrayal, the chill seeping through the soles of my cheap shoes, I made myself a single, unbreakable vow. Just three words, whispered into the void of that suburban night:

Watch what happens.

This is the chronicle of exactly what happened.

My name is Coralie. Eighteen months prior to standing on that porch like a beggar, I possessed what polite society would classify as a highly respectable life. It wasn’t a cinematic existence. It wasn’t the curated, filter-heavy perfection you see on social media that elicits a barrage of envious comments. But it was structurally sound. It was stable.

I resided in a suburban split-level with a dishwasher that didn’t rattle, drove a silver minivan with a fractured left taillight I perpetually swore I’d replace, and was raising three humans who were aging at such a terrifying velocity that blinking felt like skipping chapters in a book.

Sarin, my eldest at nine, was fiercely analytical. She was the anomaly who meticulously read the instruction manual before tearing the shrink-wrap off a board game. Calla, six, was a tempest of kinetic energy, convinced that if she flapped her arms with enough conviction, gravity would eventually surrender. And Arlo, my four-year-old, was still compact enough to mold against my chest when he slept, still young enough to harbor the delusion that his mother possessed the magic to fix any broken thing in the universe.

I also had Caspian.