His eyes slid away for half a second. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
That night, sleep never came.
I replayed everything I’d ignored—the way meals had become silent, rushed. The way he laughed less. The way he felt older lately, but not in a good way.
Near two in the morning, I stood outside his bedroom door. Warm light spilled from underneath.
I didn’t open it.
I just listened.
And a thought settled into my chest like a stone:
If he’s skipping school, it isn’t rebellion.
It’s responsibility.
The next morning, I acted normal.
Packed lunch. Talked schedules. Watched him walk toward the bus stop.
Then I drove away.
Two streets down, I pulled over.
Hands shaking, I circled back.
I parked out of sight, slipped in through the back door, and moved quietly through the house.
Noah’s room looked untouched. Bed made. Backpack gone.
Still—I trusted instinct over evidence.
I crouched.
Looked under the bed.
There was space. Dust. Old notebooks.
Enough room for an adult.
I slid underneath, heart hammering.
Minutes passed.
Then the front door opened.
Footsteps. More than one.
Noah’s voice—low, urgent.
“Okay, come in. Quick.”
Another child whispered, “Your dad’s not home?”