PART 2

The airport was almost empty when Frank and I arrived.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t rushing.

No checking my phone every two minutes.

No wondering whether Cody needed something.

No calculating how much time I had left before someone asked me to come home.

Frank carried the suitcase while I held our boarding passes.

He looked at me carefully.

“You know,” he said, “we don’t actually have to go.”

I stopped walking.

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re going to spend the entire trip feeling guilty…”

He didn’t finish.

I knew what he was trying to say.

For thirty years, guilt had been the invisible third person in our marriage.

Every birthday I’d missed.

Every weekend we’d canceled.

Every vacation we’d postponed because Cody needed money, childcare, help with the house, or simply because someone had decided that our plans could wait.

I looked at Frank.

Then I smiled.

“I’m not feeling guilty.”

He smiled back.

“Good.”

We boarded the plane.

And for the first few hours, I didn’t turn my phone on.

When we landed in Portland, I finally switched it back on.

Thirty-seven missed calls.

Twenty-two texts.

Most were from Cody.

The first message was angry.

You seriously left?

The second came three minutes later.

Mom, this isn’t funny.

Then:

Britney is furious.

And finally:

You are putting us in a terrible position.

I stared at the screen.

Frank glanced over.

“Want me to answer?”

“No.”

I deleted the notifications.

Then another message appeared.

This one wasn’t from Cody.

It was from Britney.

I can’t believe you would do this to your own grandchildren.

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, I put the phone away.

We drove toward Cannon Beach.

For the first time in five years, I watched the ocean through the car window without thinking about what I had left behind.

The cottage was small and beautiful.

A fireplace.

Two bedrooms.

A porch overlooking the water.

Frank opened the door and looked around.

“Thirty-second anniversary.”

I smiled.

“Finally.”

That evening, we ate dinner by the window.

We talked about everything except Cody.

Until my phone rang.

Cody.

I let it ring.

Then it rang again.

And again.

Finally, Frank reached across the table.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation tonight.”

I nodded.

But then a voicemail notification appeared.

I pressed play.

Cody’s voice filled the quiet room.

“Mom, you need to come back.”

His voice wasn’t angry anymore.

It was scared.

“There’s been a problem.”

I froze.

Frank looked at me.

The message continued.

“Please call me as soon as you hear this.”

Then the recording ended.

I stared at the phone.

For years, whenever Cody called, I had dropped everything.

This time, I didn’t.

I turned the phone face down.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered.

But ten minutes later, another message arrived.

Not from Cody.

From his wife.

Your son hasn’t told you the whole truth.

My stomach tightened.

I opened the message.

There was only one sentence underneath.

The reason they needed you to stay with the kids had nothing to do with Britney’s training.

I looked at Frank.

He had already seen my face change.

“What is it?”

I handed him the phone.

He read the message twice.

Then looked at me.

“Call her.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because for the first time in thirty years, I want them to understand what happens when I’m not immediately available.”

I turned off my phone.

But I couldn’t sleep that night.

Because somewhere back in Boise, my son was hiding something from me.

And whatever it was…

he had been desperate enough to cancel the trip I’d waited five years to take.

The next morning, at 6:14 a.m., my phone rang again.

This time, it wasn’t Cody.

It was my lawyer.

And the first thing she said was:

“Evelyn, we need to talk about the house.”