The Sunday Evening He Could Not Hide the Pain
Sunday evenings in San Diego always carried a peculiar heaviness.
Even after the sun sank low, warmth still clung to the pavement and rooftops. Heat shimmered above the freeway, and the sky softened into a weary mix of gold, gray, and pale orange. It was beautiful from a distance, but up close it felt exhausted—like a long week that refused to fully release its grip.
For Mason Holloway, Sundays were never peaceful.
They were never the gentle ending to a family weekend. They were never relaxed. They were never simple.
They were the day his six-year-old son returned.
At exactly 6:50 that evening, Mason steered his black SUV onto a narrow residential street in a modest neighborhood near Chula Vista. The asphalt was cracked in several places, chain-link fences leaned slightly toward the sidewalk, and a few porch lights had already flickered on even though the sky still held some light. The small duplex at the end of the block looked exactly as it always had. Peeling paint. A crooked mailbox. A patch of dry grass that never seemed to come back to life.
Mason saw every detail, but he never commented.
Because his son was inside.
And that was the only thing that mattered.
