Until last weekend, I thought I knew my son, our town, and the quiet seam between ordinary life and hidden truths. Then Ethan leapt into the deep end, and everything shifted.
He’s fifteen—moody, lanky, forever hungry—yet when he saw a drowning girl, he moved before anyone else. He pulled her out, dripping and blue-lipped, and life in our small town rewrote itself: Ethan, the hero.
But the real shift came after. A letter summoned us to the old mansion. Jonathan, the child’s grandfather, offered gratitude—and more: chances for Ethan’s future. Confrontations cracked walls of grief and neglect, and something softer filled the room.
Driving home, Ethan whispered, “I didn’t just save her.”
“No,” I said. “You saved them all.”
