Vesna was five when she first heard her world start to break.
She sat on the floor in the hallway, her small fingers clutching the edge of the doorframe. Her parents' voices drifted from the living room—low at first, then louder, sharper, like knives scraping against each other.
"I'm done, Shawn," her mother's voice was cold. "I can't live like this anymore."
"We're a family," her father's tone cracked. "You can't just walk away."
"I've found someone else. He can give me more… a better life. I deserve that."
Vesna didn't understand everything. But she knew what it meant when her father stopped talking—when the silence stretched so long it felt like the air had frozen.
Her chest felt tight. She wanted to go to him, to hold his hand. To ask her mother to stay. But she stayed in the shadows, small, quiet—like if they couldn't see her, maybe none of it would be real.
Then the door opened.
Her mother left without looking back.
Her father stood there for a long time, staring at the door like he was hoping it would open again.
It never did.
That was the night Vesna learned that people leave. And sometimes, they never come back.