STORMS (CHILDHOOD)

He left for four nights. She barely noticed. He came back glowing.

She came home exhausted, cradling her second child.

The birth wasn’t hard. The baby was quiet. But now there were two, and she felt like none.

She introduced the older boy to his new brother with a hollow smile. Then collapsed into the quiet.

Later that day, she saw him—her oldest—playing by the edge of their yard, where the lawn kissed the national forest.

By dinnertime, he hadn’t come in. She noticed. She didn’t move.

Not unheard of, she reasoned. He was five. Probably lost in the game. Normally she’d call him. Or look. But not tonight. Not after this week.

The house was silent. And she wanted it to stay that way.

In the morning, his bed was untouched.

Still, she didn’t panic. Told herself he’d come home when he was ready. If the boy had chosen the woods over her, maybe that made him smart.

Four nights passed.

Then—on the fifth morning—he walked through the door. Tiny. Muddy. Shirt torn, face smudged, eyes bright.
She knelt and peeled off his boots. Stripped the filthy shirt. Muttered something about having to mend it.

“Where have you been?” she asked, almost absentmindedly.

“With the rabbits,” he said.

Then he ran to the table like nothing had ever gone wrong.