I slammed a plate into the sink harder than I meant to.
“He’s my son.”
“And he’s 18 now. Maybe it’s time someone stopped treating him like a child.”
I wiped my hands on a towel and walked upstairs.
Andrew’s bedroom door was open, the room empty. I figured he was taking his time, clearing his head.
Then I saw the note on his bed.
“Mom,”
“I love you more than anyone in this world, but I can’t keep living like this. Please don’t look for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Andrew.”
I remember screaming.
Marcus came running upstairs, pretending to be just as shocked as I was. For the next few weeks, he played the role of the worried stepfather perfectly.
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.
“I also know why you stopped.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
Marcus folded his arms.
“This is ridiculous.”
Andrew ignored him.
“You stopped because he convinced you I didn’t want to be found.”
“That’s what your note said.”
“No.” Andrew shook his head. “My note said not to look for me. It didn’t say I stopped loving you.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Andrew finally looked at him.
“No. You’ve had six years.”
Marcus turned to me.
“He’s trying to blame me because he can’t take responsibility for running away.”
Andrew unlocked his phone.
“You really want to keep lying?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
Andrew held up the screen.
“I kept these because one day I knew I’d need them.”
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
“What are those?”
“The reason I never came home.”
Marcus’s face hardened.
“They don’t prove anything.”
“Then let Mom read them.”
He walked toward me. Marcus moved to block him, and without thinking, I stepped between them. It was the first time in years I had stood between my husband and my son.
“Move,” I said.
Marcus stared at me.
“Liza.”
“Move.”
He hesitated, then he stepped aside.
Andrew placed the phone in my hands. The messages were dated the night of his birthday. The first one had arrived 18 minutes after he left the house.
“Don’t come back tonight.”
Another followed less than a minute later.
“Your mother deserves one peaceful day.”
I frowned.
Then I kept reading.
“She spends all her time defending you.”
“She’s exhausted.”
My hands began to shake.
The next message nearly made me drop the phone.
“If you really love her, disappear.”
A sound escaped my throat that didn’t feel human.
“No.”
Andrew closed his eyes.
“Keep reading.”
There were more.
“She’ll always choose me.”
“I’m the husband. You’re the problem.”
“Give her the chance to have a normal life.”
My vision blurred.
I looked up at Marcus.
“You sent these?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
I looked back at the phone. The final message had been sent just before midnight.
“Don’t contact her again. She’ll heal faster if you’re gone.”
Tears rolled down my face.
I couldn’t breathe. I had spent so much time believing my son had chosen to leave me, yet all that time, he’d been carrying the weight of those messages.
I slowly looked at Andrew.
“You believed this.”
He nodded.
