nodded at my son. Just once. Slow.
Like he was saying, go on.
Behind him, the doors opened again.
And this time, it wasn’t two officers.
To understand why I couldn’t move, why I just stood there with my chair on the floor behind me and my hand pressed to my mouth, you need to understand how we got there. How my son ended up alone on that stage. And how badly I’d let him down before he ever got there.
My name is Jennifer. My son, Caleb, is twelve.
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