I watched from the porch as they put Ricky in the back of the squad car. His hands were cuffed, his head hung low, and no matter how many times I called his name, he wouldn’t look at me.
He’s a good kid. Stubborn, like his father was, but good. He made mistakes, sure—what fifteen-year-old doesn’t? But I knew in my bones he wasn’t a criminal.
The officer—tall, late 30s, tired eyes—barely met my gaze as he shut the door. “He’ll be booked downtown, ma’am,” he said. “You’ll be able to see him soon.”
And just like that, they drove away.
The house was too quiet after that. I sat in the same chair by the window, waiting for a call, a knock—anything. But hours passed, and nothing.