My son had been gone for exactly two days when he came home in tears.It was a Thursday evening in late August. I was standing at the stove making spaghetti sauce, the way I do every Thursday, because it’s the one meal my husband, Mike, never gets tired of. The kitchen window was open. The cicadas were screaming in the oak trees. Somewhere down the street, a neighbor was mowing his lawn.I heard the front door open.I knew it was Luke before I turned around. Eighteen years of listening to a person come home teaches you the sound of their footsteps.
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