Six years ago, my husband called to say he was stopping at the store on his way home. That was the last time I heard his voice. They found his car abandoned near the woods, but never found him.
Then one day, my dog brought my husband’s jacket in his mouth and wanted me to follow.
The phone rang while I was setting 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 was piled in the corner of the living room.
The kids were arguing about who got to open presents first on Christmas morning.
I answered without looking at the screen. “Hey!”
“I’m leaving now,” Ethan said, his voice tired but warm. “I know it’s late, but I’m dropping by the store real quick.
The kids won’t stop talking about that gift.”
I laughed softly. “They’re not going to riot if it’s under the tree tomorrow instead.”
He chuckled softly, and that sound… God, I can still hear it.
“You say that now, but you know how they’ve been. I kind of promised.”
I sighed, leaning against the counter.
“Dinner’s already on the table. Everything’s hot.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I can almost smell it from here.
You made that chicken I like, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. The one you always steal extra pieces from.”
There was a pause, comfortable and familiar. The kind of silence you only get after 11 years of marriage.
“Ethan, is everything alright?” I asked.
“You sound exhausted.”
“I am,” he admitted. “I’ll be home before the kids finish arguing.”
I hesitated for just a second. “Okay.
Just don’t take too long.”
“I will.”
“And hey,” he added, his voice softer. “Thanks for waiting.”
“Always.”
“I will. Hurry home.”
That was the last time I ever heard my husband’s voice.
After we hung up, I went back to the kitchen and tried to keep everything normal.
The kids sat at the table, swinging their legs, asking when Daddy would be home.
I told them he’d just stopped at the store and would be back any minute.
I reheated his plate, covered it with foil, and set it aside like I always did when Ethan was running late.
An hour passed. Then two.
I checked my phone. Nothing.
I sent him a message, trying to keep it casual so I wouldn’t scare myself: “Are you driving?”
No reply.
I called.
It rang until it went to voicemail.
That’s when the feeling changed. Not panic… not yet. Just this quiet, heavy unease settling in my chest.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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