He knew not to call me at work unless something was wrong.
That was not because I was strict with him.
It was because Noah was the kind of kid who remembered little rules like they were promises.
He remembered to put his shoes by the door.
He remembered to say thank you to the crossing guard.
He remembered that if he missed me during the day, he could ask his mom to send me a picture instead of calling.
So when his name lit up twice in a row, something cold moved through my chest before I even touched the screen.
I stood up with the phone already at my ear.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, keeping my voice gentle because half the conference room was watching me. “You okay?”
At first, I heard nothing but breathing.
Not normal breathing.
Wet, broken little breaths that kept catching in his throat.
“Daddy,” he whispered.
I stepped away from the table.
“Noah? What happened?”
“Please come home.”
The room behind me disappeared.
The projector, the coffee cups, the spreadsheet, the people in button-down shirts staring at me over their laptops.
All of it became background noise.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked.
“She’s not here.”
