Three days.
That was how long my mother had been missing.
Three days of endless searching, sleepless nights, and gut-wrenching fear. My mother, Edith, who was 67 and battling Alzheimer’s, had somehow wandered out of the house while I was away, dropping the kids off at their summer camp.
The camp was four hours away. Nate, my husband, couldn’t take time off work, so we agreed that I would drive the kids there, spend the night at a motel, and then return home the next day.
I had left Mom in Nate’s care, trusting him to watch over her while I was gone.
But that trust was shattered the moment my phone rang.
It was Nate. His voice was frantic, breathless.
“Claire! She’s gone! Edith—your mom—I don’t know how it happened! I just woke up, and she wasn’t here!”
His words slammed into me like a freight train. My body went numb, my fingers tightening around the phone. I was sitting on the edge of the motel bed, but suddenly, I felt like the floor was giving way beneath me.
My mother was missing.
I had thought she was safe.
I was wrong.
I shoved my things into my overnight bag, grabbed my car keys, and sped home, my heart hammering against my ribs. I barely blinked the entire drive. My mother was lost, out there alone, and every terrible possibility clawed at my mind. What if she got hurt? What if someone took advantage of her? What if she never came home?
The next three days were torture.
The police were involved. We answered question after question. Flyers were printed and plastered across town. A hotline was set up. Strangers volunteered to help us search. And yet, there was nothing.
She had vanished.
And the guilt ate me alive.
I should have been there. I should have stayed home. Or I should have taken her with me, even if it meant stopping every hour to make sure she was comfortable. Anything would have been better than this.
I replayed everything over and over. My mother had never wandered off before, but Alzheimer’s was a cruel disease. It stole her memories in pieces, leaving behind a woman who sometimes didn’t recognize her own home.
Maybe she had simply forgotten where she was. Maybe she had gone out looking for me, confused about where I had gone.
I couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways I had failed her.
And then, on the fourth morning, the police pulled up in front of our house.
I ran to the window and saw them helping my mother out of the backseat. Relief flooded my body so fast that my knees nearly buckled.
She was home.
I yanked the front door open and rushed outside. My mother looked exhausted. Her clothes were wrinkled and dirty, her hair wild. But she was alive. She was safe.
“Claire-bear!” she called out, her voice trembling. It was the childhood nickname she had always used for me. “Where have you been, baby? I was waiting all alone for you!”
I choked back a sob and wrapped my arms around her. She smelled of sweat, dirt, and the cold air from being outside too long.
“Mom, where did you go?” I whispered against her shoulder.
But she didn’t answer. Instead, she stiffened in my embrace, her body going rigid.
Then, slowly, she lifted a shaking hand and pointed.
Right at Nate.
The officers and I followed her gaze, my stomach twisting with confusion.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” I asked gently.
Her breathing was shallow. Her face pale. And then she spoke, her voice thin but firm.
“You need to arrest him.”
Silence.
The air around us felt like it had been sucked away. Even the officers exchanged uncomfortable glances, shifting on their feet.
I blinked. “What? Mom, what are you talking about?”
She turned to look at me, and for the first time in months, there was absolute clarity in her eyes. A sharpness that made my pulse stutter.
“Three days ago,” she said. “I saw him. I saw Nate in your bedroom with a woman.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“I heard voices upstairs,” she continued. “I forgot that you and the kids were gone. I thought it was them playing, so I went to check.”
Nate shifted beside me. “Claire, she’s confused,” he said quickly. “You know how your mom is. She’s probably remembering something from years ago.”
But Mom shook her head fiercely.
“No! I saw you! I asked you to explain, and you lied to me! You told me she was a homeless woman you were helping. But which homeless person wears red-bottomed shoes? And then—then you told me to leave!”
My stomach turned to stone.
“Mom, what do you mean he told you to leave?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He told me I didn’t live there. That this wasn’t my home. That I had to go. And I believed him. I was so confused, Claire. I was terrified. So… I left.”
The world around me blurred. My mother’s voice faded under the pounding in my ears. I turned to Nate, my vision tunneling.
“Tell me she’s not telling the truth,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me this didn’t happen.”
Nate swallowed, his hands raising in defense. “Claire, listen—”
“Tell me!” I screamed.
The officers stood still, clearly hesitant to intervene, but their expressions said it all. They knew.
Nate exhaled heavily, rubbing his face. “Fine,” he muttered. “Yes. She saw something. But it wasn’t serious, Claire! It was a mistake! I didn’t want to freak her out, so I—”
“So you lied!” I cut him off. “You lied to her, and then you let her walk out into the night because she was in your way?” My voice cracked. “My mother could have died, Nate!”
He looked at his feet. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“But it did!” I shouted. “And now, you’re going to pack your things and get out.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“You heard me. We’re done. You’re leaving.”
“Claire, be reasonable. We can work this out!” He stepped toward me, but I stepped back.
“No, we can’t. I will call you after I pick up the kids. You can explain to them why you don’t live here anymore.”
For a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he muttered a curse under his breath and stormed upstairs to pack.
The front door slammed behind him a few minutes later.
I stood there, shaking, until I felt a soft, familiar hand take mine.
“Come, Claire-bear,” Mom said gently. “Let’s make some tea and chocolate cake.”
I looked at her, saw the way the moment of clarity had faded again, replaced by confusion and kindness.
I let her lead me into the kitchen.
I had two weeks before my kids came home.
Two weeks to figure out how to put my life back together.
