Fifteen years ago, Lisa vanished into the rain after leaving to buy diapers for our newborn, Noah. No note, no trace—just gone. I filed reports, waited nightly, and raised Noah alone, telling him it wasn’t his fault. Then, in a grocery store, I saw her. “Lisa?” I called, chasing a ghost down the cereal aisle. She turned, and years collapsed. In the parking lot, she confessed she’d been overwhelmed, fleeing to France, thinking it was best. I told her Noah
waited by the window for months. Her eyes teared, and she asked only that I tell Noah she’s here if he wants to know her. I promised I would. That was all I could offer. She’d missed too much. I walked away—not from anger, but because I’d survived her storm, raised our son, and healed. Some stories don’t need reunions, just endings. For the first time in fifteen years, I stopped searching for Lisa. I was free.
