The last time I saw my son, Daniel, he was standing in the hallway tying his sneakers, his backpack hanging off one shoulder like he was already halfway out the door.
“Did you finish the history assignment?” I asked from the kitchen.
“Yes, Mom,” he said, grabbing his jacket. Then he leaned down, kissed my cheek, and smiled the way he always did when he was in a hurry. “See you tonight.”
The door closed.
I watched him walk down the street through the living room window, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cool morning air.
That was the last normal moment I had with him.
That evening, Daniel didn’t come home.
At first, I told myself there was a simple explanation. Sometimes he stayed after school to play guitar with friends. Other days he wandered to the park until it got dark. He usually texted when he did that, but maybe his phone had died.
I repeated that to myself while cooking dinner. While eating it alone. While washing the dishes and leaving his plate in the oven to keep warm.
But when the sky turned dark and his room was still empty, a quiet, terrible feeling began to grow inside me.
I called his phone. Straight to voicemail.
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