Back when I married their dad, he used to tell me he wanted a massive family.
“A noisy house,” he’d laugh. “A dining table that’s always packed.”
We popped out six kids in ten years. Mason. Carter. Julian. Dean. Brooke. Tessa. Four boys, two girls, and plenty of chaos to rattle the walls.
Then one day, their dad just decided all the noise was too much for him. He met some woman online. Overseas. In just a few months, he packed up his bags and took off, claiming he “needed to go find himself.”
I cooked all their favorite dishes. I set the table for seven people. Brought out the nice plates. Even ironed the cloth napkins because I wanted the evening to feel special.
At four o’clock, I peeked through the window blinds like a little kid.
At five, I shot a text to our group chat. “Drive safe.”
Three typing dots popped up from Brooke, and then just went away. No actual message.
At six, I tried calling Mason. Went to voicemail. Carter. Voicemail. Julian. Voicemail. Tessa. Voicemail. Dean. Went straight to voicemail, like his phone didn’t even ring.
By seven, the dinner was cold. By eight, the candles were barely burning. By nine, I was sitting at the head of the table just staring at six empty spots. I tried to convince myself I was overreacting. But the silence felt like a slap in the face. I ended up crying right into the napkin I’d ironed that morning.
Then a knock came at the door. It wasn’t a warm, casual knock. It was hard and official. I wiped my face real quick and opened it.
A police officer was standing on my front porch. Young guy. Clean-cut. Looking dead serious.
“Are you Diane?” he asked.
