“With the lady,” he whispered. “She said she was my mom. But she’s not you.”
My stomach twisted.
I grabbed my phone from the entry table with shaking hands.
His small fingers clutched at my sleeve.
“Don’t call her,” he said, panicked. “Please don’t call her. She’ll be mad I left.”
“I’m not calling her,” I said. “I’m calling… I don’t know. I just need help.”
“My son is here,” I choked out. “He died two years ago. But he’s here. He’s in my house. I don’t understand.”
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I hit 9-1-1.
The operator answered, and I realized I was sobbing.
“My son is here,” I choked out. “He died two years ago. But he’s here. He’s in my house. I don’t understand.”
They told me officers were on their way.
While we waited, Evan moved around the house like muscle memory.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the right cabinet without thinking.
He pulled out a blue plastic cup with cartoon sharks on it.
“Mommy, please don’t let them take me again,” he whispered.
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His favorite cup.
“Do we still have the blue juice?” he asked.
“How do you know where that is?” I whispered.
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