My 18-year-old son moved into an apartment with his childhood best friend. I thought they were prepared to handle life independently. But only two days later, Wyatt returned home in tears. He locked the door and whispered, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. Please don’t call Austin.” Then he gave me a document he’d discovered at Austin’s house, and what I read nearly made me collapse.

“Mom,” he said in a raw, cracking whisper while holding his trembling hands together. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to just listen.”

“Come sit at the table, Wyatt,” I told him gently as I reached out to pull a chair back. “You look completely exhausted, honey.”

Instead of moving toward me, he glanced past my shoulder and walked straight to the entrance to throw the heavy deadbolt shut.

“Is Dad still at the remodel job over on Maple Street?” he asked while testing the latch a second time.

“He will not be back until seven o’clock tonight, so it is just the two of us here,” I answered, feeling a cold knot of dread twist in my gut. “Did you and Austin have an argument at the apartment?”

“No, that is not it at all,” Wyatt snapped before dropping his chin toward his chest. “Just please promise me