He drove me to the police station, printed missing-person flyers, and even joined me when I walked through parks, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of my son.
When the police reminded us Andrew was legally an adult and had every right to leave, Marcus wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
“We have to accept his decision.”
Months turned into years.
Every birthday, I baked Andrew’s favorite chocolate cake, every Christmas, I wrapped a present I never mailed, and every Mother’s Day, I stared at my phone, hoping it would ring.
It never did.
Whenever I cried, Marcus would repeat the same words. “You have to let him go.”
Eventually, I stopped talking about Andrew because every conversation ended the same way.
“He made his choice.”
Those words became a prison.
Now my son stood in front of me, looking at Marcus as though nothing had happened.
“I didn’t ask you to remember the party,” Andrew said. “I asked if you remembered what happened after.”
“I found your note.”
“I know.”
“I searched for you.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked for the first time.
