“I need to check the mail,” he’d say. Or, “I should start dinner.”
The real alarm came two weeks later. I woke to an empty bed and the sound of the front door closing softly. The first time, I thought he was just getting fresh air. By the fifth night, I knew something was wrong.
“Ryan, where were you last night?” I asked over breakfast, trying to sound casual.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, staring into his coffee. “Went for a drive.”
That’s when I decided to follow hi
The next night, I pretended to sleep. Around midnight, I heard him slip out of bed and tiptoe down the hall. My heart pounded as the front door clicked shut.
I threw on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and crept outside. His car was already backing out of the driveway. I waited until he turned the corner, then followed at a safe distance.
He drove for nearly an hour—past our neighborhood, beyond the city limits, into unfamiliar areas. Finally, he pulled into the lot of a run-down community center. The peeling paint and flickering neon sign read: Hope Recovery Center.
I parked behind a truck and watched him sit in his car for several minutes, shoulders hunched, gathering courage. Then he walked inside.
