After nine long months overseas, I finally came home—to my wife, Ruby, and our newborn baby girl, Jenna. Everything seemed perfect. The house smelled like home again, my daughter’s tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and my wife’s smile felt like sunlight after a storm. But sometimes, perfection hides cracks you can’t see right away. And in our case, it was our loyal German Shepherd, Max, who noticed first. He started acting strange—barking at odd hours, pacing around the baby’s crib, whining like he was trying to tell me something. I

The week at the beach had been perfect: sun on our faces, salt in our hair, and the boys building the kind of sandcastles that made strangers stop and stare. For a few days, I let myself breathe. For a little while, I was only Catherine — not bills, not court forms, not the messy parts of being a single mom. Just Mom. But the peaceful bubble popped the minute we drove back into our neighborhood. My name is Catherine. I’m forty, and I’ve spent the last year raising my

“The Boy Who Offered Water” The sun felt like fire that Tuesday afternoon. The air shimmered above the pavement, and even breathing felt like work. I was sitting on our porch with a glass of sweet tea, trying to stay cool, while my five-year-old son, Eli, drew chalk dinosaurs on the driveway. His cheeks were red and sweaty, and little curls of damp hair stuck to his forehead. Suddenly, Eli stopped drawing. He squinted down the street and asked, “Mom, why’s that man walking funny?” I looked where he was