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.

“Proof of what?” I asked, though my throat went dry because I already felt the ghost of a nineteen year old choice catching up to me.

Wyatt reached into the pocket of his hoodie, his breathing shallow and rapid.

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, soft at the creases from being opened and closed countless times.

“Before I show you this,” he said, looking straight into my eyes with a gaze that made my blood run cold, “I need you to promise me you will not lie to me this time.”

“Where did you get that, Wyatt?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“From Austin’s house, inside his mother’s locked desk where Austin knew she kept her private files,” he said, pushing the paper toward my hand.

I picked up the worn page, still praying that this was all just a wild misunderstanding.

PART 2