I thought my son trusted me, even after his father passed away. Discovering he had lied about his weekends for two months terrified me. Searching for answers would force me to face years of buried grief.
“When is my son coming home? He’s been staying at your place for weeks!”
Denise’s question almost made me spill my coffee.
“Denise, what are you talking about? Nathan’s been at your house since yesterday!”
“Laura, I haven’t seen your son in weeks.”
It was nearly nine o’clock on Saturday evening.
My sixteen-year-old son, Nathan, was supposed to be sleeping over at his best friend Cole’s house.
“But he stays with Cole every weekend!”
“And Cole tells me he’s staying with Nathan. It’s the same story every week.”
Our sons had been close since kindergarten.
Every Friday for two months, Nathan had kissed me goodbye and left with his backpack, supposedly for Cole’s house.
“Denise, when did you last see Nathan?”
“Early August, I think. What about Cole?”
“Same.”
Eight weekends. From early August through late September, they’d both deceived us.
With Denise still on the line, I called Nathan twice. Both calls went to voicemail.
“Cole’s not answering either!” Denise cried.
I checked Nathan’s latest message.
“Mom, Cole and I ordered pizza. Don’t wait up. Love you.”
My fingers trembled as I sent another text.
“Nathan, I know you’re not at Cole’s. Call me now.”
The message was delivered, but nobody opened it.
“Laura, what if something happened to them?”
“Come over,” I said. “We’re finding them tonight.”
Twenty minutes later, Denise arrived. Together, we contacted the boys’ friends and checked everywhere they normally spent time.
Not one person had seen either of them.
Searching Nathan’s bedroom, I discovered a store receipt tucked beneath his desk lamp.
It listed sandpaper, wood glue, and paintbrushes.
The purchases reminded me of a conversation we’d had three weeks before.
“Mom, do we still have Dad’s stuff?”
“Some of it.”
“Could we look through it?”
“Another time, honey.”
I’d been occupied with bills and had barely lifted my eyes. Michael had died three years earlier.
Unable to sort his things, I had left them packed away. Nathan stopped asking—until recently.
I brought the receipt downstairs and showed Denise.
“Denise, look.”
“Why would they need woodworking supplies?”
A possibility suddenly occurred to me: Frank, Michael’s father, still lived in the house where Michael had grown up.
Behind it stood his workshop.
We hadn’t spoken since Michael’s funeral.
Frank accused me of erasing his memory; I told him not to judge my grief. Neither apologized.
I called him twice without an answer, then left a voicemail.
“Frank, Nathan’s missing. If you’ve heard from him, call me immediately.”
***
By eleven, Denise and I had called the police, provided descriptions of both boys, and explained where we’d already looked.
At midnight, we sat together at my kitchen table.
“Has Nathan been acting strange?”
I remembered his Sunday exhaustion, long showers, and evasive answers.
“I thought he was just growing up.”
“Me too,” Denise whispered. “Cole’s been so secretive.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“We’ll find them.”
Yet I couldn’t stop wondering how much of Nathan’s life I truly understood.
***
At 4:06 in the morning, Frank finally called.
“Where’s Nathan?” I demanded.
“They’re both here. Safe.
My phone was charging in the workshop. I only saw your messages when I woke up.”
“Put Nathan on.”
“Laura, let me explain.”
“After I speak to my son, Frank.”
Seconds passed before Nathan took the phone.
“Mom?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Cole all right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you answered your phone?”
He paused before admitting what had happened.
“We saw your messages. We were scared to answer.
Grandpa didn’t know we’d turned our phones off after that.”
I shut my eyes, overwhelmed with relief and anger.
“You let us spend the entire night looking for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Frank’s bringing you home. Now.”
I immediately contacted Denise so she could collect Cole, then informed the police that both teenagers had been found safely.
***
At 4:37 a.m., I heard a key turn in the front door.
Nathan came in by himself.
“Where have you been?! Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?!”
“Mom, I…”
“Don’t you dare lie to me, Nathan! Two months! Where have you been spending your nights?! Have you been with Frank?”
He lifted his head. Only then did I notice how miserable he looked.
His eyelids were puffy from crying, and sawdust was caught in his hair.
Later, I learned he’d cried when Frank said their secret was over.
But the jacket on his shoulders left me gripping the doorframe.
It was Michael’s old brown work jacket, complete with the torn pocket.
I hadn’t seen it since my husband died.
“Oh, God, Nathan… what have you done? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”
He lowered his gaze.
“Grandpa’s selling the house. Cole and I have been helping him save Dad’s things.”
“What things?”
Nathan rubbed his eyes.
“There’s something Dad started making before I was born. I wanted to finish it.”