Six years ago, my husband called to say he was stopping at the store on his way home. It was a calm December evening, only days before Christmas. Dinner was ready, the house felt warm, and our children were buzzing with excitement about presents and bedtime. His voice sounded tired but familiar, wrapped in the comfort of our shared life. He joked about the kids, asked me to save him a plate, and promised he’d be home soon. When the call ended, I never imagined it would be the last time I’d hear his voice.
An hour passed, then another. His phone went unanswered. By nightfall, unease crept into every corner of the house. His car was later found abandoned near a wooded area, his belongings still inside, but there was no sign of him. Days turned into months, then years. Officially, he was missing. Quietly, people began to treat him as gone. I kept moving for our children—school days, birthdays, routines—while holding onto a hope I couldn’t explain.
