He slowly zipped up a compartment on the bag, his movements deliberately slow and mocking. Finally, he turned to face me. The boy standing in front of me didn’t look like my son. His eyes were cold, hard, and entirely devoid of the warmth I had nurtured for nearly two decades.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he sneered, his voice dripping with an ugly, unearned arrogance. “I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me.” The audacity of his words sent a fresh wave of blinding anger through me. He was still a minor. He was still living under my roof, eating the food I bought, sleeping in the bed I provided.

I wasn’t just going to let him walk out the door into the unknown. My eyes darted around the messy room, landing on his desk. Sitting right on top of his math textbook was his navy blue passport.I lunged for it. He realized what I was doing a split second too late and scrambled across the room to stop me, but I was faster.

I snatched the little book off the desk and gripped it so tightly my knuckles turned white.