The Sundays That Felt Too Quiet
Sunday evenings always carried a strange weight for Michael Reeves.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., he pulled his sedan to the curb outside his ex-wife’s townhouse in Aurora, Colorado. The neighborhood was calm—too calm. Porch lights flickered on, and somewhere down the block, a family was laughing over dinner. Michael checked the time, inhaled slowly, and repeated the same thought he told himself every week.“Just picking up Lucas. Twenty minutes home. That’s it.”

The front door opened.

Lucas stepped out with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was nine years old, tall for his age, usually full of energy. But tonight, something was off. He moved slowly—carefully—like each step required permission from his body.

Michael’s chest tightened. He stepped out of the car.

“Hey, buddy. You okay? Why are you walking like that?”

Lucas looked up and forced a small smile that never reached his eyes.

“I’m fine, Dad. Just tired.”

Tired.
The word landed heavy. Michael had heard it before.

He opened the back door and gestured toward the seat.

Lucas froze. His fingers trembled slightly on the handle. His eyes widened, as if the seat itself were dangerous.

“Go ahead, champ,” Michael said gently. “Hop in.”

“Yeah… okay.”

Lucas tried to sit. For a split second, his face cracked—sharp pain flashed across it before he buried it fast. He perched on the very edge of the seat, stiff, careful not to lean back.

During the drive along Interstate 225, Lucas never once rested against the seat. He leaned forward the entire way, his body rigid.

Michael gripped the steering wheel.

“So… what’d you do this weekend?” he asked, trying to sound normal.

“Nothing. Stayed home.”

“Played anything?”

Lucas swallowed.

“Yeah. I ran around a lot.”

Michael glanced at him.