My second mistake happened three nights earlier, when I walked into Caleb’s room with a laundry basket balanced on my hip and noticed the corner by his desk looked wrong. Too open. Too bare.
His guitar stand was empty.
« Caleb? » I called out.
« Yeah, Mom? » His voice drifted in from the kitchen, muffled by whatever he was eating straight out of the fridge.
« Where’s your guitar? »
The silence that followed lasted about three seconds too long.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, and one look at his face told me something was wrong. Caleb has never been able to lie to me. His ears turn red before his mouth even opens.
« Mom, » he said, staring at his socks. « I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. »
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