The Day Hope Came Home
The phone rang as I set the table for dinner.
It was a Tuesday in December, three days before Christmas. The house smelled of roasted chicken and vanilla candles. Wrapping paper spilled from a box in the corner. The kids argued over which gift was theirs.
I answered. “Hey.”
“I’m leaving now,” Ethan said. His voice was tired but warm, the way it always sounded after a long day. “Stopping at the store real quick. The kids won’t stop talking about that gift.”
I smiled. “They’ll survive if it shows up under the tree tomorrow.”
He chuckled. That sound—soft, familiar—echoed in my chest.
Dinner was ready, the chicken hot. We spoke for a few ordinary minutes, shared a laugh, a pause, comfort. “Save me a plate,” he said. “I will. Hurry home.”
That was the last time I heard his voice.
Hours passed. Calls went unanswered. His car was later found abandoned near a back road, door open, windshield cracked, wallet and phone inside. Ethan disappeared, and the search never brought him home.
Six years went by. Life moved forward, but I remained frozen in that December evening. His jacket hung by the door. His sweater lay over a chair. Dinner plates were set, just in case. Hope lived quietly in the empty spaces he left behind.
Then one March evening, Max—our dog—scratched at the back door. He held something in his mouth: Ethan’s muddy, worn jacket. Max ran toward the woods, stopping to make sure I followed.
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