I was three years old the last time I saw my mother.
I don’t remember much. Just fragments.
I was standing on our neighbor’s porch, holding a worn-out stuffed rabbit. My mother knelt in front of me, brushing my hair back with shaking hands.
“Stay with Lydia, okay?” she said softly.
I nodded.
I didn’t understand what was happening.
But I remember the feeling.
Something wasn’t right.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” she promised.
She kissed my forehead.
And then she left.
She never came back.
In the days before she disappeared, something had changed.
Even at three, I could feel it.
She spent hours on the phone, her voice tense, sharp, then suddenly quiet. Sometimes she locked herself in her room. Once, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, crying into her hands.
I didn’t know why.
I just knew she was afraid.
A few days later, the police came.
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