When Mason, my 14-year-old son, asked to live with his dad after our divorce, I agreed, though it broke my heart. I wasn’t giving him up, I told myself. I was just stepping aside so he could have the space to reconnect with Eddie, his dad, after the split. Eddie had always been fun and carefree, the kind of dad who’d make pancakes at midnight and wear baseball caps backward to soccer games. I convinced myself it was the right thing to do. I would still have him on weekends, whenever he wanted.

The first few weeks, it was easy. Mason called often, sending me silly selfies and updates about movie nights with his dad. His goofy grins and half-burnt waffles in the kitchen felt like little slices of my old life with him. I saved every photo, every video, replaying them over and over. I told myself he was happy. Free.

But then, the calls slowed. The texts were less frequent. Conversations became brief. One-word replies. Then, one day, there was silence. I tried calling, leaving messages, but nothing. That’s when I began hearing from Mason’s teachers.

The first was about missing homework.

“He said he forgot, Claire. But it’s not like him.”

Then, a voice crackled through the phone during lunch.

“He seems disconnected… is everything okay at home?”

I could feel the weight of her concern, the unspoken question lingering between the lines. And the worst came from his math teacher.

“We caught him cheating during a quiz,” she said. “He looked… lost.”

That word—lost—stuck in my mind like static. It was as if everything in me froze, because lost wasn’t my son. Mason was careful. Thoughtful. The kind of kid who double-checked his work. The kind of kid who blushed when he didn’t get an A.

That night, I tried calling again. No answer. I left another voicemail. I waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing. My heart sank.

I called Eddie, trying to stay calm, not accusatory, but concerned. I had to know what was going on.