He took a step forward, his hand reaching out. He looked so desperate. I looked at him, really looked at him, and I realized I didn’t know who he was anymore. I had spent twenty-five years loving him, and he had spent the last two months using me.

“I need that, Mom,” he whispered. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough,” I said.

I didn’t call the sheriff. Not then. I looked at him, and I saw the way his hands were shaking, and for the first time in my life, I felt a strange kind of cold peace. I knew I couldn’t save him. I had tried, and I had failed, and that was the end of it.

I handed him the phone. I watched him take it, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal. He looked at me, and for a split second, I saw a flash of the boy who used to chase fireflies. Then he turned and walked out the door without saying another word.

I sat in that truck for an hour. I didn’t move. When I finally walked back into the house, it was quiet. It was too quiet. The keys were gone from the hook. My truck was gone from the driveway.

He didn’t come back that night. He didn’t come back the next day, either.

I’m sitting here now, in the same kitchen where we had that last cup of coffee.

The table is clean. The red-circled papers are in the trash, and the silence in this house is finally starting to feel like home again. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t think I want to know.

I learned the hard way that you can’t build a life on someone else’s secrets. You just end up buried in them. It’s a bitter lesson, but it’s mine. I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight, and for the first time in months, I think I might actually be able to close my eyes.