Too big for his age in that lanky way, hat always backward, skateboard glued to his hand.
I’d see him out front in the evenings. Up and down the sidewalk. Practicing tricks.
Other kids would get called in.
“Dinner!” Or “Homework!”
Doors opened. Porches lit up.
No one ever called for Jack.
His house stayed dark most nights.
No car in the driveway. No lights in the windows.
At first, I told myself I wasn’t being nosy. Just observant.
That lie worked until the night I heard him cry.
Not the pipes. Not a baby.
Crying.
I held my breath and listened.
There it was again. Muffled, broken sobs.
I got up, pulled on my robe and slippers, and shuffled to the front window.
I moved the curtain just enough.
Jack was sitting on his porch.
His cap lay on the step beside him.
His shoulders were shaking.
No porch light. No glow from inside.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my door and stepped outside.
“Jack?” I called softly. “Honey, are you okay?”
He jerked his head up.
His face was streaked with tears.
He looked terrified, like I’d caught him doing something illegal instead of crying his heart out.
“I’m fine,” he blurted. His voice cracked. “I’m fine.”
“Are you cold?
Is your mom home?” I took one small step closer.
He stared at me for a second.
Then he grabbed his hat, ran inside, and slammed the door.
The story doesn’t end here — it
The sound echoed all the way down the street.
I stood there, old and useless in my robe, and then shuffled back inside.
I didn’t sleep much after that.
The next day, I watched his house like it was my job.
Usually, after school, he’d come out with his skateboard.
That day, nothing.
Four o’clock. Five. Six.
Porch dark. Continue reading…
