He 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.
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.
The police officer asked questions, took notes, and eventually told me, “Sometimes teenagers leave for a couple of days. Arguments with parents, that sort of thing.”
