The last time I saw my 16-year-old son, Daniel, he was standing in the hallway pulling on his sneakers, backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Did you finish the history assignment?” I asked.yasi
“Yes, Mom.” He grabbed his jacket, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “See you tonight.”
Then the door closed, and he was gone. I stood at the window and watched him head down the street.
That evening, Daniel didn’t come home.
The last time I saw Daniel, he was standing in the hallway.
I didn’t worry at first.
Daniel sometimes stayed late at school to play guitar with friends, or drifted over to the park to hang out until dark. He always texted me when he did that, but maybe his phone had died.
I told myself that while I made dinner, while I ate it alone, while I washed up, and left his plate in the oven.
But when the sun went down, and his room was still empty, I could no longer ignore the feeling that something was wrong.
I called his phone. It went straight to voicemail.
I didn’t worry at first.
By ten o’clock, I was driving through the neighborhood, searching for him.
By midnight, I was sitting in a police station to report him missing.
