I came home early today. A splitting headache, the kind that makes your eyeballs ache. I’d called in sick, craving the quiet comfort of my own space, a dark room, and maybe a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Usually, this house hummed with life, with the joyful, relentless energy of my little boy. He was my sun, my moon, my everything. My partner was often late, so it was usually just me and him, giggling through dinner, wrestling on the rug, the house filled with the scent of his favorite macaroni and cheese.
But today, the house was silent.
I pushed open the front door, expecting to hear his usual shout, “You’re home!” or the frantic patter of his little feet as he launched himself into my arms. Nothing. Maybe he’s playing hide-and-seek, I thought, a small smile touching my lips despite the throbbing in my head. He loved to surprise me.
“Hello? I’m home!” I called out, my voice a little hoarse. Still nothing.
I walked through the living room, past the scattered toys, past the half-finished drawing on the coffee table. His favorite crayon, a bright orange, lay beside it. The TV was off. The kitchen was clean, surprisingly so. No evidence of snack crumbs, no juice box left on the counter.
A shocked blonde woman | Source: Pexels
“Hey, where are you, buddy?” I tried again, a little louder this time, my smile fading. This is a really good hiding spot, I thought, a flicker of unease starting to tickle the back of my neck. He usually couldn’t stay quiet this long.
I checked his room. The bed was made, his dinosaur sheets pulled taut. No lumps under the duvet. His closet door was ajar, but empty inside. My heart started to beat a little faster. This wasn’t right. My headache was momentarily forgotten, replaced by a cold knot in my stomach.
I checked the bathroom, the guest room, even the laundry room. Every room. Each empty space echoed the growing dread within me. The silence in the house was no longer peaceful; it was deafening, suffocating. My breath hitched.
HE WASN’T HERE.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up my throat. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. Where could he be? He never left the house alone. He was too little. He wouldn’t just wander off.
“NO! NO, NO, NO!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my lungs, raw and desperate. I ran back to the front door, yanking it open. The street was empty. No little boy riding his tricycle, no glimpse of his bright red jacket. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision. My chest tightened, making it hard to breathe.
I pulled out my phone, fumbling with shaking fingers. I called my partner. Straight to voicemail. AGAIN. Where are you? Why aren’t you answering? I left a frantic, garbled message, demanding to know where our son was.
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Then I called my best friend. She always knew what to do. She was calm, practical, always there. The phone rang once, twice, then she picked up.
“Hey, what’s up?” Her voice was steady, normal. Too normal.
“HE’S GONE! He’s GONE! I came home and he’s not here! My son is missing!” My voice was a choked sob. I collapsed onto the floor, the cold tile a shocking contrast to the burning terror inside me.
There was a pause on the other end, a long, heavy silence. Then, her voice, softer now, laced with something I couldn’t quite place. Not panic, not shock, but… deep sadness?
“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m coming over. Just breathe. I’m on my way.”
I hung up, clutching the phone to my chest, rocking back and forth, desperate for her to arrive, for her to tell me this was a nightmare. Every minute felt like an hour. My entire world had imploded.
She arrived within minutes, her face etched with concern, but still that strange, quiet sadness. She knelt beside me, pulling me into a tight embrace. I clung to her, sobbing into her shoulder, the scent of her familiar perfume a small anchor in my spiraling despair.
“He’s just… gone,” I choked out, pulling back to look into her eyes. “He was here this morning. My partner left for work, I went to mine, and he was here. He HAS to be.”
She reached up, cupping my face in her hands. Her gaze was incredibly gentle, but there was a profound pain there, too. Her eyes were shimmering, unshed tears reflecting the light.
A pensive teenage girl | Source: Unsplash
“Honey,” she started, her voice breaking. “Look at me.”
I met her eyes, searching for answers, for hope, for anything.
Then she said it, the words that twisted everything I thought I knew, that shattered my reality into a million irreparable pieces. The words that changed everything.
“He’s not missing. He never was.”
My breath caught. My mind reeled, trying to process her calm, devastating tone. What did she mean? He was missing. I just searched the whole house!
“What are you talking about?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “He’s gone. I can’t find him. He’s NOT HERE.” I pointed to the empty living room, the silent house.
She slowly shook her head, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, my love. He… he went away six months ago. Remember? The accident? The day you were supposed to pick him up from preschool, but you had that emergency at work, and your partner was… distracted?”
My world tilted. The room spun. An ice-cold wave washed over me, a realization so horrifying, so utterly DEVASTATING, that it stole the air from my lungs. Six months? An accident? No. NO. This was wrong. This was a lie. She was lying.
But the silence… the too-clean kitchen… my partner always being late and withdrawn… the way everyone looked at me sometimes, with pity…
“He’s… gone?” I whispered, the words alien, impossible, tasting like ash. My best friend could only nod, her face a mask of profound sorrow.
A man covering his face | Source: Pexels
I came home early, and my son was missing. But the truth was, he’d been missing from my life for half a year, and my broken mind had only just allowed itself to forget that terrible day.
