Three days after giving birth, I came home expecting darkness, fresh sheets, pain medication, and quiet.
Instead, the front door stood wide open.
Music rattled the windows.
Eleven cars crowded the street.
And somewhere inside my house, a man was murdering “Sweet Caroline” while twenty-two people shouted the chorus back at him.
For one second, I genuinely thought Caleb had brought me to the wrong house.
Then I noticed my planter wedged beneath the front door.
My planter.
My house.
My nightmare.
I stopped on the porch with our three-day-old
