Straight to voicemail.
By ten that night, I was driving through the neighborhood looking for him.
By midnight, I was sitting inside a police station reporting him missing.
The officer on duty asked routine questions while writing in a notebook.
“Sometimes teenagers leave for a few days,” he said calmly. “Arguments with parents, wanting space. It happens.”
“Ethan isn’t like that.”
He looked up. “What do you mean?”
“He’s gentle. The kind of kid who apologizes when someone bumps into him in a hallway.”
The officer offered a polite smile. “We’ll file the report, ma’am.”
But I could see in his eyes that he thought I was just another frightened parent who didn’t truly understand their child.
Continue on the next page:
