"Do you think she's okay?"
"I hope so, sweetheart. I really do."
Noah gave a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Noah came down then, already dressed in pajama pants and a faded school hoodie. He stopped in the doorway when he saw the photos, and something flickered across his face that I could not name.
"What's all this?"
"Memory lane," Stefan said. "Mom's getting sentimental. Brace yourself."
Noah gave a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
"I'm going to bed early. Big day."
After they both drifted upstairs, I sat alone with the photographs spread like cards.
"You don't want to look?" I asked.
"Maybe tomorrow."
He always said that. Stefan asked questions, dug, wanted names and dates and reasons. Noah went quiet whenever Tessa came up, the way a person goes still around a sleeping animal. I had stopped pushing years ago.
After they both drifted upstairs, I sat alone with the photographs spread like cards. Near the bottom of the last box, I found it: Tessa in a hospital gown, two pink bundles in the crook of each arm, her face exhausted and luminous.
Outside, somewhere past the porch light, tomorrow was already waiting.
I traced the edge of the picture with my thumb. Eighteen years of silence sat between us, heavy as a closed door.
"Where did you go?" I whispered to the woman in the photograph. "Where on earth did you go?"
Outside, somewhere past the porch light, tomorrow was already waiting.
Eighteen years ago, I sat on my couch with two warm bundles in my arms and a phone that would not stop ringing.
Tessa had dropped the boys off that morning. She kissed their foreheads, handed me a diaper bag, and said she would be back by dinner.
By midnight, the police had filed a report.
"Just a few hours, Jess. I promise."
"Take your time," I told her. "Get some air. You've earned it."
She hugged me longer than usual at the door. I should have known.
By midnight, the police had filed a report. By morning, my phone buzzed with one message.
