For fifteen years, my life had been defined by absence.
In my town, people no longer called me by my name first. Instead, I became a story, a quiet reminder of something that never found its ending. I was the woman whose son never came home.
Time moved forward for everyone else.
For me, it never really did.
I still remembered the last morning I saw Bill as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He ran out the door in his blue jacket, full of energy, talking about a science project he couldn’t wait to show me later that day.
He promised he’d be back.
He never was.
The search that followed consumed everything.
Police filled our yard, neighbors formed lines with flashlights, reporters asked questions I answered without even hearing myself speak. I clung to hope with a desperation that refused to fade, even as days turned into months and months into years.
Eventually, the world moved on.
But I didn’t.
My husband, Mike, tried to accept what we had lost.
Some nights, he would hold me as I cried, his voice breaking as he asked me to let go, to find a way to live again. But hope is not something you can switch off, and no matter how much time passed, I couldn’t stop searching.
Even in the smallest ways.
I still bought Bill’s favorite cereal.
Still set out his plate sometimes before putting it back.
Still dreamed of him running toward me, always just out of reach.
Leave a Comment