I told her I only wanted to understand what had happened. She said there was nothing to understand, that he died instantly, and that if I came to the funeral, I’d better not create drama in front of “his family.”
I told her I would be there no matter what. Then she hung up.
I sat there crying, remembering Daniel as a little boy, the son I had raised alone after his father left when he was three. But after the tears came suspicion.
Laura had sounded too calm. The cremation had happened too quickly. The will felt too convenient. None of it sat right with me.
I called Daniel again. No answer. I stared at his photo on the shelf, holding baby Owen at a football game, and tried to imagine life without him.
Then I heard it.
Three soft knocks at the back door.
I froze. It was after midnight, and no one ever used that door. The knocking came again. “Who is it?” I asked, trying to sound brave.
A weak voice answered from the other side. “Mom.”
My whole body went cold. “Who is it?”
“Mom… it’s me. Daniel. Please open the door. I’m hurt.”
My hands shook so badly I could barely get the locks open. When I pulled the door back, I almost stumbled.