Sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary moment—like Julian handing me a mug of tea or laughing at a stupid commercial—I’d feel a wave of grief for the family I didn’t have. Not the family I lost, exactly, but the family I’d wished for.
Julian never rushed me through it. He didn’t tell me to forgive. He didn’t insist family was everything. He just let me talk, and when I fell silent, he stayed.
A month after I moved, my phone rang on a Tuesday morning. The caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize, but it had my old hometown area code.
I almost let it go to voicemail. Then something in my gut tightened, and I answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Lara Smith?” a man asked.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Officer Hughes with the Lincoln Police Department,” he said. “I’m calling about an incident involving your parents, Wade and Susan Smith.”
My blood went cold.
“What kind of incident?” I managed.
“They were arrested last night for breaking and entering and destruction of property,” he said. “The homeowner wants to press charges.”
For a second, my brain refused to process the words.
“Breaking and entering where?” I asked.
There was a pause, like he was checking his notes.