Almost a year after my teenage son disappeared, I saw a homeless man walk into a cafe using my son’s jacket — the same one I had patched. When she said a boy had given it to her, I followed her to an abandoned house. What I found there changed everything I thought I knew about my son’s disappearance.
The last time I saw my 16-year-old son, Daniel, he was standing in the hallway putting on his tennis, with his backpack hanging on his shoulder.
“Did you finish the story task?” I asked him.
“Yes, Mom.” He grabbed his jacket, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “See you tonight.”
Then the door closed, and he left. I stood at the window and saw him walk away down the street.
That night, Daniel didn’t come home.
At first I didn’t worry. Daniel sometimes stayed up late at school to play guitar with friends, or went to the park to hang out until evening. He would always text me when he did that, but maybe his phone had run out of battery.
