That night, I missed him fiercely. The house felt unnaturally quiet without the constant thrum of his chatter. I told myself it was part of letting him grow, giving him little bits of independence. Matthew held me, reminding me that this was good for Oliver.

But the next evening, my phone rang. The caller ID showed my mother-in-law’s number. I answered with a smile, ready to hear all about Oliver’s adventure.

Instead, all I heard was my son’s sobs.

“Mommy?” His voice cracked, ragged with tears. “Mommy, please come get me. I want to come home. Please, please, please.”

My chest tightened instantly. “Oliver? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t like it here,” he cried. “Grandma is mean. She yells. I want to go home.”