Every parent’s worst nightmare is losing their child. When it happens on Thanksgiving, the cruelty cuts deeper. This morning, a young boy around five years old from a few streets over was reported missing. The Amber Alert disrupted our mid-afternoon meal and my family, my husband and our three kids, stopped to say a prayer. We were joined by my parents, brother, sister-in-law, sister, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews, and my husband’s parents.

Two minutes later, we heard a knock at the door. To my surprise, the boy was on my doorstep. He looked stunned and I quickly shooed him inside, glancing around outside to see if anything suspicious stood out.

I calmly told my husband to call the police, but inside, I was panicked. The children welcomed the boy, Dominic, with open arms. My parents offered him some food, but he shrunk into himself, bringing his knees to his chest and hiding his face.

Several minutes passed in silence before we heard sirens approaching. We ushering the police and EMTs into the dining room so they could check on Dominic and take our statements.

Dominic muttered something no one could make out, but my son got closer to him. Barely above a whisper, my son repeated what Dominic was trying to say.

“He says there are other kids.”

My blood chilled. This child had clearly seen awful things in the short amount of time he was gone, and I couldn’t understand how he escaped but I was grateful he had.

The police exchanged glances and the EMTs insisted it was time to get him to the hospital. Left without answers, we closed the door as the last first responder left and tried to return to our meal, but it was too late to go back to it now.

We had a new level of gratitude for each other’s presence and safety. Silently, the adults cleared the table while the kids dished generous helpings of pie for everyone.

We turned on a Christmas movie to watch while we had dessert, cuddling closely, and thankful for how the day turned out for Dominic and silently praying for the kids who were still missing.