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.

you will not pick up your phone to call him.”

When both boys finished high school that spring, they signed a lease on a drafty brick apartment near the community college in Ames so they could split utility bills and groceries.

Dan had spent Tuesday loading up a borrowed utility trailer to haul Wyatt’s mattress and an old oak desk across town, while I boxed up dishes and enough pantry staples to last two months.

“Make sure you call me every night,” I had told Wyatt while hugging him tight in that small stairwell.

“Mom, you are worrying about nothing because I am only twenty minutes down the road,” he had replied with a teasing roll of his eyes.

Now, barely two days later, he was standing in our kitchen with trembling shoulders and a deadbolt locked against the evening light.

“Whatever went wrong between you two, we can talk through it,” I said softly while trying to steady my own racing pulse.