I called the police. The search began immediately. Within hours, they found Ethan’s car abandoned near a back road by the woods. The door was open. The windshield cracked. His wallet and phone still inside.
Search teams combed the area for days. Dogs. Helicopters. Volunteers.
They never found him.
Weeks became months. The searches slowed, then stopped. Officially, he was missing. Unofficially, people started speaking about him in the past tense.
I never did.
Six years passed. I learned how to function with an ache that never left. I smiled for the kids. I went to school events. Life moved forward, even though part of me stayed frozen in that December night.
I never packed away Ethan’s things. His jacket still hung by the door. His sweater stayed draped over the bedroom chair. People told me to let go—that holding on was hurting me.
But hope isn’t loud. It’s the empty chair at dinner. The clothes you can’t fold away. The plate you keep setting even when no one comes home.
Our dog Max became my quiet companion. We’d adopted him the year before Ethan disappeared. Some nights, Max would sit by the door, staring at it like he was waiting for something I couldn’t see.
Maybe he was.
