Not angry or embarrassed. Just… broken.

He stood.

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair.

“You’ve been avoiding the truth your whole life.”

Andrew looked at me. For one awful second, I thought he was asking me to choose.

I should have stood up.

I should have walked out with him. Instead, I stayed in my chair, stunned into silence.

Andrew left the dining room, ran upstairs, and a few minutes later, I heard the front door close. I thought he just needed air. I had no idea it would be the last time I’d see my son for years.

I still remembered every minute after that.

The guests left one by one, each offering awkward smiles and quiet apologies, as though they felt responsible for what had happened.

I cleaned plates I couldn’t remember serving while Marcus sat in the living room, watching television as if he’d done nothing wrong.

“Are you going to apologize?” I asked.

He didn’t look away from the screen.

“For telling the truth?”

“You humiliated him.”

“He embarrassed himself.”

I slammed a plate into the sink harder than I meant to.

“He’s my son.”

“And he’s 18 now. Maybe it’s time someone stopped treating him like a child.”

I wiped my hands on a towel and walked upstairs.

Andrew’s bedroom door was open, the room empty. I figured he was taking his time, clearing his head.

Then I saw the note on his bed.

“Mom,”

“I love you more than anyone in this world, but I can’t keep living like this. Please don’t look for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Andrew.”

I remember screaming.

Marcus came running upstairs, pretending to be just as shocked as I was. For the next few weeks, he played the role of the worried stepfather perfectly.

He drove me to the police station, printed missing-person flyers, and even joined me when I walked through parks, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of my son.

When the police reminded us Andrew was legally an adult and had every right to leave, Marcus wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“We have to accept his decision.”

Months turned into years.

Every birthday, I baked Andrew’s favorite chocolate cake, every Christmas, I wrapped a present I never mailed, and every Mother’s Day, I stared at my phone, hoping it would ring.

It never did.

Whenever I cried, Marcus would repeat the same words. “You have to let him go.”

Eventually, I stopped talking about Andrew because every conversation ended the same way.

“He made his choice.”

Those words became a prison.

Now my son stood in front of me, looking at Marcus as though nothing had happened.

“I didn’t ask you to remember the party,” Andrew said. “I asked if you remembered what happened after.”

“I found your note.”

“I know.”

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.

BAC TO PART 1