Last Thursday started like every other awful, quiet night I’ve had since my family fell apart. By midnight, I was scrubbing a clean counter just to avoid thinking too much—right up until three soft knocks on my front door turned my whole world inside out.
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It was Thursday night. Late. The kind of late when nothing good happens. I was wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time, just to fill the silence, when I heard it.
Because that voice belonged to one person, and there was no way I could be hearing it now.
Three soft knocks.
A pause.
Then a tiny, trembling voice I hadn’t heard in two years.
“Mom… it’s me.”
The dish towel slipped from my hand.
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For a second, the words didn’t make sense. I tried to make them make sense, but they were devoid of meaning. Then, my whole body went cold.
“Mom? Can you open?”
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