Our lives back then felt… predictable. Comfortably safe.

Every morning, my little boy Timmy—my Junebug—would sit at the kitchen table with his feet dangling above the floor, humming off-key while smearing peanut butter across toast.

I used to think nothing truly bad could happen on a quiet street like ours.

The sunlight through the curtains always caught in his hair, turning it gold. He’d look up at me with that lopsided grin and say,

Mr. Bear was his whole world.

“Now Mr. Bear is just like me,” he said.

My husband, Ethan, was already in uniform that morning, finishing his coffee before another long shift at the station. He’d been with the police for nearly twelve years, the kind of man who could make any crisis sound manageable.

People trusted him. So did I.

“The department’s cutting overtime again,” he’d said absently, scrolling through his phone.

People trusted him. So did I.

I nodded, half-listening as I packed Timmy’s lunch. Meanwhile, Timmy finished his toast, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood on tiptoe to grab Mr. Bear.

“Don’t lose him, okay?” I said, straightening his jacket.

He grinned. “I never do.”

Those were the last words he said to me.

Those were the last words he said to me.

He ran out into the yard. I remember thinking I’d follow in a minute—just needed to rinse the dishes, wipe the table. That minute stretched into ten. I looked outside. The gate was open. The yard was empty.

“Junebug?”

At first, I thought he was hiding—he loved that game. I ran around the yard, behind the shed, calling his name. Nothing. My mother, who was visiting, went pale when she came outside.

I ran around the yard, behind the shed, calling his name.

Nothing.

“Call Ethan,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

When the officers arrived, everything felt like slow motion. My husband stood in the doorway, frozen.

“Stay calm,” he said flatly. “We’ll handle it.”

Days blurred into nights. Search teams, posters, news reports, neighbors bringing casseroles I never touched. I filled the kitchen wall with maps and photos: circles, strings, notes, every possible lead.

Days blurred into nights.

“You need rest,” said my best friend, Sue.

“I’ll rest when I know where he is.”

At night, I’d hear my husband pacing. The following morning, his voice cracked.

“I can’t do this anymore, Lila. I’m drowning in this.”

I turned to him. “He’s our son.”

“I’ll rest when I know where he is.”

He walked to the closet, took out his suitcase. The casual efficiency of his action was the cruelest cut. I didn’t stop him. I just pressed my palm against the cold wall covered in photographs and whispered,