I saw a homeless man wearing my missing son’s jacket — and I decided to follow him. Almost a year ago, on a Monday morning, my 17-year-old son, Daniel, left for school and never came back. My son was always the one who could make everyone laugh. He was kind and sensitive. He would never even leave the house without telling me. That just wasn’t like Daniel. That same evening, I called the police. The officers said teenagers will be teenagers — that he would come back in a couple of days.

He looked down at the table. “I didn’t run from you.”

“And the girl who was with him?”

“Then what—”

“I ran because of Maya.”

And then he told me everything.

In the weeks before Daniel disappeared, Maya had confided in him. She told him that her stepfather had been getting increasingly quick-tempered and unpredictable. He yelled and broke things nearly every evening.

“She said she couldn’t stay there anymore,” Daniel said. “She was scared.”

And then he told me everything.

“I met him, I think. I went to her house to ask if she knew what had happened to you, and a man answered the door. He told me Maya was staying with her grandparents.”

Daniel shook his head. “He lied.”

I slumped back in my chair. “All this time… but why didn’t she tell a teacher? And what’s this got to do with you running away?”