It’s after eleven at night when I hear the front door slam. I know it’s him. He’s early tonight. The sounds of his boots running up the stairs and his bedroom door also slamming shut pisses me off even more. The middle of the night, and he’s acting like I don’t have to work tomorrow like his sisters don’t have school, like he doesn’t. Not that he’s going.

“Damn him.” I go downstairs. I want to curse him. Ask a round of questions. I know he’ll only lie. I want to, but first, I have to lock the door because I know my son didn’t lock it back. That would require him to care about me, about us, or show the slightest bit of responsibility, but that’s like asking for rain in the desert.

Even before I touch the lock, I can feel the cold. I sigh because it is the harsh winter that made that boy come home where…

The knock makes me jump and yank my hand back. I stare at the door like it’s about to explode.

Someone knocks again. It’s harder, this time. Not hard enough to break the door, but loud enough to wake everyone in the house.
I don’t open it. This is Chicago, and my son is…different. I look through the peephole, and my chest hurts.

“Not again.” My voice comes out louder than I intend.

“Hello, hello, ma’am. Chicago Police.”

I curse myself. She heard me, and once the police know you’re home, they never leave. I look up the empty stairs, and sickness forms in my stomach.

I turn the doorknob, but it’s locked. I close my eyes. That boy never locks the door behind him, but this time he did. He knew! The thought screams through my head, so loud tears almost come to my eyes. I can taste the sourness rise. It burns my throat, but I swallow it back down.

I take a deep breath. “Just a minute.”

Please, God, just this one time. I open the door. “Yes, can I help you?” I politely ask the lady officer.

“Ma’am, we’re looking for an African American youth, wearing a red Bulls coat, blue jeans, and tan boots. The youth was last seen in this area. Did anyone matching that description come into this house?”

My mind instantly goes back to my ex-husband. The scene of him being dragged away by the police seven years ago plays through my mind. I know what my answer will be, must be, without thinking about it. “No, he didn’t come home.”

Her eyes lock onto mine.

It takes me a second to realize what I’ve done. My hand instantly goes to my mouth, but we both know it’s too late.

“He’s running out the back!” the shout comes from outside. “Drop the Gun! Don’t…”

My world goes silent.

The officer runs.

I fall to my knees. I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I…just can’t…