“And would you like more eggs honey?” My mum asked my four-year-old son, Danny, as we sat at the breakfast table.
“Yes.”
My mother started piling more eggs onto his plate, to which he started wailing.
“I said yes!”
My mom gave my wife and I a confused look.
“I’m sorry, Danny, does ‘yes’ mean something different in your home?” She asked.
“No, mum, we’re sorry. Danny’s been getting his words mixed up, we’re going to take him to a speech therapist once we get home. Just last week he threw a tantrum at daycare because he said ‘no’ to a cookie, and was upset that all the other kids got one and he didn’t.” I said as my mum picked him up.
“Well, if you say so. I’ll go give Danny a bath, and then we can head out to the London Eye. Are you excited to go on the big ferris wheel, love?” My mum asked.
“NO!” Danny excitedly exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air, and we all laughed.
This trip was almost perfect. It was the first time my American wife and son had visited my hometown of London, and so far we were all having so much fun. The only thing to put a damper on our vacation was my son’s constant mixing-up of yes and no. I should’ve got it checked out long ago, I know, but I guess I thought it was cute, and now I worried it was too late. My wife, Laura, seemed to think the same thing.
“Mark, we really should get Danny’s speech checked. It could cause some problems later on.” My wife Laura said. “I mean, it’s bad enough when he got a British accent from hanging around you.”
“Well, like father like son.” I joked, and we laughed.
Just then my mum walked towards us, Danny in tow. He was holding his favourite stuffed animal, a dalmation plush he called Doggie, in his hands. He insisted on bringing Doggie along with him on our trip.
“Are you sure love? I don’t want Doggie to get lost.” My mum said.
“No! I’m bringing him.” Danny said stubbornly, and I laughed as I hoisted him up onto my shoulders.
It really was a lovely day. We walked around London, took Danny and my wife to ride on their first double decker bus, rode the London Eye, all that tourist-y stuff. We ended it off by getting Danny some ice cream.
Danny still kept all of his energy throughout the day, even as the adults slowly got more tired. He was running up ahead of us, which my mum and I had no problem, we both grew up here, we knew the area.
Once he got out of our eyeshot though, we began to call him back.
“Danny? Danny!” I called, but he didn’t come back.
After two hours of searching, we called the police.
After two days of searching, he was officially reported missing.
I ruined my life looking for him.
I made Laura sell our house in the USA so we could move in with my mum to continue searching for him. Every day, I’d wake up at 5 AM to search the city, not coming home until 10 PM that night. I wouldn’t eat with my mum and Laura, in fact most days I wouldn’t eat at all. I became more irritated by small things, I started taking my anger out on Laura. Every week I’d send in a new police report, hoping they would do something about it. They never did. There wasn’t enough evidence, they would say, it’s a cold case.
Laura left me three years after Danny disappeared. She said she had moved on, it was time I did the same.
Mum died from a heart attack six years after that.
I was alone. No son, no wife, no mum, and it was all my fault.
Danny had been gone for 9 years. He would’ve been 13 now.
Then I heard something that rocked my world.
I was sitting at the table, the same table Danny ate his last meal at, eggs, which he didn’t even like.
The news report came on, saying that the police had just busted a nine-year-long child slavery scheme in the middle of London. They were now rescuing all the kids.
Nine years.
In London.
I knew I had to find my son.
I sprinted out the door, running through the town, trying to find it.
There, by the abandoned building I had passed so many times, was a huge section covered in caution tape and surrounded by officers. I could see hundreds of dirty, skinny children, and I knew Danny could be in there. I tore through the caution tape as police chased after me. I screamed my son’s name as I avoided all the officers.
Then something dropped at my feet.
It looked like a lumpy, dirty rag, but upon further inspection, I could see it was Doggie.
“Daddy?” a boy said.
He was about three feet taller now and dirty and thin as a stick, but under all that grime, I knew.
This was Danny.
“Oh, my boy, my boy!” I yelled, throwing my arms around him. At last, I had finally found my son, who I spent nine miserable years looking for.
That’s when the police caught up to me. Three restrained me, while the fourth approached my son.
“Boy, do you know this man?” He turned to me. “If he doesn’t we’ll have to arrest you until further notice.”
I looked to my son, pleading to him with my eyes. “Danny, please.” I whispered. The three policemen tightened their grip around me. Danny looked to me, then back to the officer.
“No.” He said, and the three policemen all picked me up with ease and carried me into their policevan.
“Danny! Wait, Danny! That’s my son, he’s my son! I loved him with all my heart, you can’t take him away from me again!”
And as we drove away, I could see Danny one last time. He followed me with his eyes, and mouthed one last thing to me.
“Bye daddy.”