“I’m almost there.”
There were a dozen questions I wanted to ask.
But Evan was thirteen.
He had always been responsible.
And I didn’t want to become the kind of mother who searched through her son’s belongings every time something seemed slightly strange.
So I let it go.
Or at least I tried to.
A few weeks later, letting it go became impossible.
Evan normally finished work around six.
That Saturday, six o’clock came and went.
Then seven.
Then seven-thirty.
I called his phone several times.
Straight to voicemail.
By then, every protective instinct in me was screaming.
Just before eight, I finally heard the back door open.
I hurried into the hallway.
Then stopped.
Evan looked terrible.
Mud covered his sneakers.
His jeans were filthy.
One sleeve of his shirt was torn.
And there was a fresh scrape along the side of his face.
“Evan!”
He immediately looked down.
“What happened?”
“I fell.”
“Where?”
“Near the creek.”
He tried to walk past me toward the stairs.
I stepped in front of him.
“Your clothes are ripped.”
“I slipped down the bank.”
His voice became impatient.
“I’m okay, Mom.”
The explanation didn’t make sense.
Then another question occurred to me.
“Where’s the money you earned today?”
He froze.
Only for a second.
But I noticed.
“I put it somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“It’s fine.”
“What does that mean?”
He finally looked at me.
His face was exhausted.
“Can I please just take a shower?”
Before I could stop him, he hurried upstairs.
A few seconds later, I heard the bathroom door close.
Then the shower started running.
I stood alone in the kitchen.
And that was when fear began filling in all the blanks.
The hidden cash.
The torn clothes.
The missing bike.
The excuses.
The unexplained hours.
What if an older kid had gotten him involved in something?
What if the diner job wasn’t the whole story?
What if someone was taking his money?
What if Evan was doing something dangerous and was too frightened or ashamed to tell me?
