My son vanished under mysterious circumstances two years ago. It was a story filled with unanswered questions. Recently, while on a business trip in a different city, I stumbled upon him on the street. This encounter only added new layers to the already bewildering mystery of his disappearance.
I gripped the cold steering wheel, my mind racing. “Home is where you make it,” I murmured, but the comfort it once provided was long gone.
I was on a business trip in a new city, trying to make this place my home, but somehow, I couldn’t do it. I knew I couldn’t. Home is where your loved ones are. And I was all alone. I would never have a home.
Lost in my thoughts, I drove by a school, and it was then I spotted a boy with curly blonde hair. “Arnold?” My heart skipped a beat. He looked just like my missing son, but it couldn’t be, could it?
I couldn’t resist; I followed the yellow school bus the boy got on. The bus zigzagged through the streets, and I trailed behind, driven by a mother’s desperate hope.
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“It’s been two years, Arnold. Two years with no sign of you,” I whispered, the painful memory of his disappearance haunting me.
Two years ago, we had to start a new life in witness protection after I testified against a dangerous man — my ex-employer for whom I worked as an accountant. My husband was his driver, and when we were offered to enter the program, James refused because he was too loyal to his boss.
I knew that the program could ensure a good life for my son and me, so James and I went our separate ways.
Adjusting to our new lives under witness protection was tough. Arnold missed his father, and we lived a life of secrets, barely talking about our past.
One day, as I neared home from work, excited to see Arnold, I spotted a menacing figure by my neighbor’s fence. Recognizing him as a threat from our past, I knew they had found us. Panic set in as I raced home, praying Arnold was safe.
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Breathlessly entering our house through the backdoor, I shouted, “Arnold! Pack up, now!”
“Mom? What’s happening?” he asked, confused.
“No time to explain,” I urged, tossing him his backpack. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
As we hurriedly packed, I called Officer Perez, the man who had helped me with everything when I entered the program. “Malcolm, it’s Carla. They’re here—the ones after us.”
But before Perez could respond, I saw shadows approaching our house.
Dropping the phone, I grabbed Arnold. “Out the back, now!”
We ducked through the bushes, our hearts pounding, and made a break for the car. As we sped away, headlights appeared behind us. I floored the accelerator, my mind fixed on escaping.
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“Mom, watch out!” Arnold’s shout snapped my focus back just in time to swerve around the trash cans.
“Sorry!” I gasped, my heart racing as the thugs’ car growled menacingly behind us.
“Mom, can we defeat them?” Arnold asked, looking at me.
“We have to!” I said confidently.
I drove faster, weaving through the streets with the engine roaring in my ears.
“Mom, they’re right behind us!” Arnold’s fingers gripped the door handle.
“D*mn it, forgot my phone. Can’t call for help,” I muttered, slamming the gas pedal.
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“Focus on losing them!” Arnold shouted, his eyes wide. We tore through the city, a maze of turns and near misses until buildings gave way to an open road.
“Where are we going?” Arnold asked.
“Out of the city,” I said, gripping the steering wheel.
The car skidded on gravel as we veered off-road into the woods, branches whipping against our windows.
“Think we lost them?” Arnold peered into the darkness.
“Can’t see ’em anymore,” I said, hoping it was true. We found an abandoned hut in a clearing and hurried inside.
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“Quiet. They might still be close,” I whispered, scanning the darkness.
“Is it safe here?” Arnold whispered.
“Safer than out there,” I assured him. “Let’s stay put until dawn.”
But then, the distant growl of an engine shattered the silence.
“Arnold, listen,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “I’m going to lead them away. You go the other way, find help.”
“They won’t catch me,” I lied. “Be brave and fast. Can you do that?”
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He nodded, determined. “I’ll find someone. I’ll get the police.”
“Good boy.” I squeezed his hand and pushed open the door. “Go, now!”
Arnold slipped out the back, and I dashed into the forest. Branches lashed at me as I ran, not daring to look back. The bandits were on my trail. After a grueling chase, I collapsed, gasping for air.
“End of the line,” a rough voice said, but then police sirens cut through the quiet. It wasn’t Arnold who had called them; they found me because of my car’s GPS. We looked for Arnold for days without any luck.
So when I saw that boy with curly blonde hair and hazel eyes, I saw hope… hope that I could have my son back. I followed him to a house in a simple neighborhood and knocked on the door with shaky hands.
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A woman answered, looking confused.
“Can I see Arnold?” I barely whispered.
“There’s no Arnold here,” she replied.
“But the boy with blonde hair, he’s my son.”
“That’s Jacob, my son,” she corrected me.
“No, you don’t understand. He’s Arnold, my boy.”
Jacob came to the door, eyeing me cautiously. “Who are you?” he asked.
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With tears in my eyes, I said, “Arnold, it’s me, your mom.”
Amanda, the woman, told me, “He lost his memory from before two years ago. He has amnesia.”
I begged her to believe me. “He vanished two years ago. And now I’ve found him here, with you.”
Amanda didn’t look convinced. “This story… You really expect me to believe it?”
Through my sobs, I insisted, “He is my son. Please.”
“Enough!” Amanda’s forceful shove sent me stumbling onto the porch. “Jacob is my son and safe with me,” she insisted, shutting the door with a final slam.
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Desperate, I dialed 911. “My son, missing for over two years, I’ve just found him,” I explained, shaken.
When the police and social workers came to Amanda’s house with some papers, they said, “We need to check if Jacob might actually be Mrs. Matthews’ son, Arnold.”
At the hospital, Arnold looked a bit scared about the DNA test. “Is this going to hurt?” he asked softly.
The nurse smiled gently. “Just a tiny pinch, nothing more.”
While we awaited the results, Arnold shared his story of waking up in a forest and living with an old man he thought was his dad. “I… I didn’t know what to think. My head was all fuzzy,” he said, looking at me and then quickly looking away. “The old man looked after me, but life was tough there. One day, I just had to run away.”
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“Where did you go?” the lead cop prompted.
“Got a ride to the nearest town. Told the guardianship office I was lost.” His voice faltered, but he pushed on. “Then Amanda found me.”
“The test results are in,” the doctor announced, entering the room, a clipboard in hand. “Jacob is Arnold,” he declared.
I approached my son, tears in my eyes. But Arnold recoiled from my touch, tears streaming down his face. “I want to stay with Amanda!” he protested.
The social worker turned to me, her voice steady but not unkind. “The law is clear. Arnold should be with his birth mother.”
We left the building and headed for my car, the guardianship representative giving me a sympathetic look before parting ways. The drive back to my city was long and silent. Arnold sat beside me, staring blankly out the passenger window.
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I kept trying to fill the void between us with small talk, asking about his interests, what he liked to eat, and anything to spark some kind of connection.
“Arnold, when we get home, we can—”
“You’re not my mom,” he interjected coldly, cutting me off mid-sentence.
“Arnold, please,” I pleaded.
“Just stop,” he said, turning away from me, his body language closing off any further attempts at conversation.
When Arnold came home, everything felt like a movie scene. I never expected to find my son again. I showed him his room. “This is your space, Arnold. We’ll have dinner soon, okay?”
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At dinner, I again attempted small talk, but Arnold cut me off, yelling at the top of his voice. “Stop acting like you care! My mother is Amanda! I want to live with her!”
His words deeply hurt me, and in frustration, I couldn’t stop myself from yelling, “You’re my son, and you’ll live with me!”
After a heated argument, I locked him in his room for safety – so that he wouldn’t leave. But soon, a noise from his room made me run to him. My hands shook as I unlocked the door. Seeing him at the window, about to jump from the second floor, I shouted, “Arnold, no!”
But that didn’t stop him. He jumped.
Arnold’s injury was serious but not life-threatening. When I went to see him at the hospital, he didn’t want me there. “Go away!” he shouted.
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But his demeanor changed when Amanda walked in. Arnold smiled and cried as they hugged. It was clear they shared a close bond, a bond made out of love.
I looked at Arnold, feeling a mix of sadness and love. “I’m really sorry, Arnold. If being with Amanda makes you happy, then I’ll let you stay with her. I just want your happiness.”
Arnold’s eyes met mine, and he nodded, choosing Amanda. But then he added, “You should still come visit, though.”
Hearing that made me feel a bit better. It made me think family isn’t just about who you’re related to. It’s about where you feel happy and safe.
Arnold was starting a new chapter, and so was I, but we were still connected by a special kind of love, and I had finally found my home.
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