A Parent's Hope

Today is the 15th anniversary of Maddox’s disappearance.

It feels like only yesterday that our son seemingly vanished without a trace. I’ll never forget the terrifying moment when we first realized that he was gone. My husband and I hurried to file a police report, and felt utmost powerless as we wondered whether their investigations would bear fruit. Hours turned into days, which turned into weeks, which turned into months. Each night we felt crushed under the powerful fists of fear and doubt, but each day we renewed our commitment to cling on to hope.

Losing a child this way is a truly lonely experience, which no one can really understand or relate to. The worst part was the incessant media scrutiny. Nowadays we realize we should be thankful, for it encouraged us to make use of every resource available to us. We sought solace in therapy and support groups, which somewhat sheltered us from the judgement in some people’s eyes and their silent accusations. 

There were many times when we thought of moving to a different city. The idea of a fresh start, away from all the painful memories, was so very tempting. But, ultimately, we couldn’t. We knew it in our bones that our son was still out there.

As the years went by, life went on. We’ve come to realize that time doesn’t actually heal all wounds, but it does make everything more bearable. We’ve slowly allowed ourselves to rebuild, and even feel some measure of happiness again. But 15 years of tentative recovery all came crashing down with a simple phone call.

“Mom?” My heart stopped. It was unmistakably his voice, his sweet childish tone, as if no time had passed at all. “Mommy, I’m coming home!” he cheerfully declared, before hanging up the phone.

My blood turned to ice as I looked through the window, to the place where we’d buried his tiny mangled body.