No police report.
No insurance claim.
Nothing.
That was why the car had come to me.
On Wednesday night, I picked up the boys for dinner.
We went to our usual diner.
Noah talked constantly.
Rick barely touched his grilled cheese.
When Noah stepped away, I reached into my pocket.
I placed Chompy on the table.
Rick’s face went white.
“Where did you find him?”
He told me Noah had been crying every night because their mother said Chompy was gone forever.Track Pregnancy
“I found him in Mom’s car.”
Rick’s lip started trembling.
I kept my voice gentle.
“You’re not in trouble. Neither is Noah. But I need you to tell me what happened.”
Rick looked around.
Then whispered,
“Brent said we couldn’t tell.”
He said Brent warned him that if he talked, I would get angry and stop being allowed to see them.
I felt my hands shake.
“That isn’t true. Nothing you tell me will ever make me stop seeing you.”Browse Art Prints
And then my eight-year-old told me everything.
There had been a party.
Adults were drinking.
The boys had been downstairs watching movies.
After one in the morning, Laura woke them.
Brent had been drinking.
Rick remembered the bottle.
He remembered Laura telling Brent to stop.
He remembered Brent laughing and insisting he had driven the lake road a million times.
Then the car started going too fast.
Noah became frightened.
The Mercedes left the road.
There was a huge impact.
They hit a mailbox.
Then a silver car parked in a driveway.
