On a humid afternoon, while Ethan played basketball, a formation of black cars pulled up in front of our home. The sudden stillness in the neighborhood felt heavy. People stepped out onto porches. Curtains lifted. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Then he looked at me, took a few steps forward, and sank to his knees.
“I finally found my grandson,” he whispered, voice unsteady.
I stood frozen, dish towel still in my hand.
“Who are you?” I managed to ask.
“My name is Arthur Caldwell,” he said softly. “Ryan was my son.”
My world tilted.
Arthur reached for his phone with trembling hands. “Before I show you this,” he murmured, “you deserve to hear the truth.”
He pressed play.
