He made room for my son.
I set the empty jar down and went to him.
“I know I can earn the money back, Mom,” Dilan added. “And I know the bike mattered. But Mr. Wallace needed those shoes more than I needed the bike right now.”
I pulled Dilan into my arms, and he hugged me back just as tightly.
“You did good, sweetie,” I told him.
“You mean it?”
I nodded. “I do.”
He stepped back, eyes bright. Then, he wiped his face and said, “Can I shower now? Because I seriously feel gross.”
That made me laugh, which Dilan had probably been aiming for.
“Mr. Wallace needed those shoes more than I needed the bike right now.”
He bounded upstairs two at a time. I stood there, holding the receipt, looking from the empty jar to Simon’s photo. My husband had been gone nine years, but in moments like that, I still talked to him under my breath.
I looked at his picture and thought, Our boy is becoming someone you’d have been proud to stand beside, Simon.
Then the first phone call came. It was just after 7 p.m. that evening. I had barely set the plates on the table when my phone rang.
“Ma’am, this is the sheriff’s office,” a man spoke. “Is your son Dilan home?”
Everything in me went cold. “Yes. Did he do something?”
A small pause. “We just need to confirm he’s safe.”
“Is your son Dilan home?”
“Safe from what?” I asked.
“It’s just a formal call, Ma’am.” Then he hung up.
I stood there for a moment, phone still in my hand, trying to tell myself it was nothing. But the word “safe” kept circling in my head, refusing to settle. So I went upstairs to Dilan’s room to ask him what this was really about.
I stopped at the doorway. He was already asleep. I stood there for a second, watching him breathe, and couldn’t bring myself to wake him.
An hour later, the phone rang again. An elderly woman this time.
“Is Dilan home safe?” she asked before I even said hello.
