This time, I sent one sentence.
I am proud that my children saw me leave.
Then I muted the chat.
That afternoon, snow began to fall.
Not heavily. Just enough to blur the edges of the world.
Emma wore her locket over her sweatshirt. Noah kept the compass in his hoodie pocket and checked it every ten minutes, announcing which way was north as though direction itself had become a comfort.
At four o’clock, there was another knock.
I stiffened.
But when I opened the door, Tyler stood on my porch.
He was thirteen, tall for his age, still wearing the expensive sneakers Brent had bragged about buying him. His cheeks were red from the cold. In his hands was a small paper bag.
I looked past him.
“Where are your parents?”
“In the car,” he said quickly. “Not here. I mean, they don’t know I came.”
My body went alert.
