I called Brenda once, then again, then again after that.
Each call went to voicemail.
I texted Mark, typed and deleted six different versions of what had happened, and finally sent the ugliest one: YOUR MOTHER TOOK LEO FROM SCHOOL.
CALL ME NOW.
While I waited, I stood at the front window and watched the driveway like I could force her car to appear.
My mind kept racing through possibilities.
Car accident.
Hospital.
Kidnapping.
Some bizarre misunderstanding.
Every scenario ended with Leo scared, and every second without an answer made me sicker.
The truth was, Brenda had been circling this moment for months.
She hated Leo’s hair.
Not in the harmless, old-fashioned way some relatives dislike long styles on little boys.
Brenda hated it like it offended her personally.
Every visit came with some cutting remark.
