I scrubbed the grout between the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush. I organized the linen closet even though every towel was already folded. I baked loaves of banana bread and gave them to neighbors who probably thought I had developed a baking obsession.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped.
But it was never him.
A robocall about my car’s extended warranty. A recorded message about a “suspicious charge” on a credit card I didn’t have.
One brief text from Eddie: “Hey Mom, hope you’re doing okay. We’ll try to visit soon.”
We’ll try.
Not “We want to.” Not “We miss you.”
We’ll try.
I texted back, “Looking forward to it, sweetheart. Love you.”
He didn’t reply.
At night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow circles above my bed, replaying every conversation I’d had with Moren. Every look. Every offhand comment.
What if I was wrong?
What if I was about to blow up my son’s marriage over a misunderstanding and my own grief‑warped imagination?
On the fourteenth day, my phone finally rang with a number I didn’t recognize.
“Mrs. Dawson,” Mr. Patel said when I answered. “I have what you asked for. You should come by.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Did you… did you find something?”
There was a pause.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think it would be better if we talked in person.”
I knew then.
I knew before I left my driveway. Before I climbed those creaky stairs again. Before I saw the thick manila folder on his desk.
I knew.
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