Last Thursday began like so many quiet nights I’ve endured since my family broke apart. I was cleaning the kitchen just to keep myself distracted when three soft knocks echoed through the house. At first, I thought I imagined the sound—grief has a way of creating echoes that aren’t really there. But then a small, trembling voice drifted through the door, a voice I hadn’t heard in two years. Hearing “Mom… it’s me” made the room tilt around me. I moved toward the door in disbelief, my heart racing with confusion, fear, and something I hadn’t dared to feel in a long time—hope. When I opened it, a little boy stood there, looking up at me with familiar eyes, familiar freckles, familiar everything. He whispered, “I came home.” And in that moment, the world I thought I understood changed all over again.Continue reading…
