For six years, I believed my son had walked away from me without looking back. The morning he finally came home, I thought I was getting the answers I’d waited years to hear. Instead, I discovered I’d been asking the wrong questions all along.
The knock at the door came just after sunrise.
I almost ignored it.
Marcus had already left for his morning walk, and I wasn’t expecting anyone. I wrapped my robe tighter around me and opened the door.
A man stood on the porch.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in dark jeans and a plain navy sweater. His hair was neatly trimmed, and his jaw was covered with a short beard. His posture was straight, almost military.
For a moment, I thought he had the wrong house.
Then I saw his eyes.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Andrew?”
He swallowed but didn’t smile.
“Hi, Mom.”
A sob caught in my throat.
Six years.
I had imagined this moment every single day. I had dreamed about seeing him at the grocery store, at church, even walking down the sidewalk. Sometimes I imagined him older. Sometimes I imagined him looking exactly as he had the night he disappeared.
But never like this.
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