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.
I rushed toward him with my arms open.
“My baby…”
“Stop,” he said.
His voice wasn’t angry.
It was tired. He lifted one hand, keeping a careful distance between us.
“I want him to tell you the truth right now.”
I froze.
“What?”
Andrew looked past me into the house.
“Where’s Marcus?”
The warmth that had flooded my chest disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“He’s out walking.”
“I’ll wait.”
Without asking permission, he stepped inside.
I closed the door behind him, still staring.
His clothes were nothing like the colorful skirts and soft sweaters he had loved wearing as a teenager. There wasn’t a trace of makeup on his face. Everything about him looked different.
As if he could hear my thoughts, he looked at me. “People keep looking at my clothes instead of hearing what I’m saying.”
Heat rushed into my face.
