The call came in the middle of the night, and before I even answered, I knew something wasn’t right.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what I would find waiting at the hospital.

My name is Maren. I’m 47. My son Leo is 19, and for most of my life, it has been just the two of us.He’s grown now, taller than me, voice deeper, but he still kisses my cheek before he leaves and says, “Love you, Mom,” like he means it.

That night, though, something felt… different.

At 1:08 a.m., my phone rang.

“Leo?” I said, already sitting up.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly. “Just… stay up for me, okay?”

I frowned, pushing hair out of my face. “Why?”

“I’m bringing someone home.”

I smiled a little, still half-asleep. “A girl?”

“No,” he said. Then softer, “But she’s… someone important. I want you to meet her.”

Something in his voice tightened my chest.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. Just trust me.”

Those were the last words I heard from him.

At 2:03 a.m., the hospital called.

There had been a head-on collision on Route 9.

I don’t remember the drive—just lights, sirens, and the way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the wheel.

I’ll explain when I get there.