It's Monday morning. My day off and the day mom is finally going to meet Noah. But the apartment feels off.
Usually by now, Noah is in the kitchen making coffee, reading something on his tablet, or feeding Mellow bits of bread she's not supposed to have. It's past eight—actually closer to 8:10—and the living room is quiet except for the scratchy sound of Mellow's claws tapping against the floor as she tries to paw her toy closer to me.
I toss the toy once, twice, trying not to think about it, but the longer I sit there, the more aware I become of the silence from Noah's room. He's never in there at this hour. Even on Sundays, he's up by seven.
"Where's Noah, hm?" I ask Mellow, crouching down to scratch under her chin. Her tail swishes like she's holding some kind of secret.
