Eight weekends of lies.
I called Nathan. Straight to voicemail.
His last message read, “Mom, Cole and I ordered pizza. Don’t wait up. Love you.”
I texted him: “I know you’re not at Cole’s. Call me now.”
No response.
“What if something happened to them?” Denise asked.
“Come over. We’re finding them tonight.”
We called their friends and checked their usual hangouts. Nobody had seen them.
Searching Nathan’s room, I found a receipt beneath his desk lamp: sandpaper, wood glue, and paintbrushes.
Three weeks earlier, he’d asked about his father’s tools.
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“Mom, do we still have Dad’s stuff?”
“Some of it.”
“Could we look through it?”
“Another time, honey.”
My husband, Michael, had died three years earlier. Since then, I’d kept most of his belongings packed away. Nathan had stopped asking about them.Get Marriage Tips
