Here is a short story I wrote thanks to the tips I recieved in this class.

From the moment I held my newborn in my arms, I felt something in me change. I began to feel as though danger lurked in every shadow and every decision I would come to make. I saw every child as vulnerable and worthy of my protection. I've even come to learn that while most mothers eventually shake off these fearful feelings as their child grows older, I doubt I'll be much like them. As a professional constantly immersed in the harsh realities of the world, my fear of it has only amplified over time. Each new experience, each new headline has reinforced my desire to protect my boy and those like him.

As a seasoned cop, I've spent years walking the tightrope between hope and despair, navigating the dark world of kidnappings. The frequency of these crimes is staggering, a constant reminder that evil lurks in every shadow. I've managed to salvage a few lives from the clutches of monsters, but the memories of those I've lost haunt me like restless spirits. Every failure feels like a personal defeat, a grief that cuts deeper than any wound. My husband pleads with me to walk away, to leave the pain and the guilt behind. But how can I abandon the families who cling to me as their only hope? The thought of giving up is unbearable, a betrayal of the innocent and the memories of those I've failed.

But then, one case changed everything. A young boy was taken, and I don't think I can forgive myself, not for what I've done. Worse yet, I'm forced to confront the possibility that I may not be making a difference at all.

The case landed on my desk on a morning that felt like an eternity after a sleepless night at home, where our little Joel refused to surrender to the night. It didn't matter how exhausted Mathew and I were. Our attempts to soothe him were pointless, and the tiredness showed on our faces as we waited for daybreak.

This case began like many others, with a sense of dread and urgency. A young boy was left to play in the backyard, surrounded by the familiar yet safe walls of the outdoors. But in the blink of an eye, he was taken.

The investigation revealed signs of a suspicious presence. Someone had jumped the fence, leaving behind a trail of unease and uncertainty. We knew that the perpetrator couldn't have travelled far, not with the entire city on high alert. The news of the disappearance spread like wildfire, and a day later. We began receiving reports from locals who claimed to have spotted the boy in the neighbourhood. We were convinced that the perpetrator hadn't left town, not with the entire community united in the search for the missing boy. The usually quiet streets were now abuzz with activity. Neighbours, friends, and strangers joined forces to bring the boy home safely.

I hit the streets, determined to sniff out the trail of clues that would lead me to the kidnapper. Experience had taught me that the crime scene can hold much information. Asking the right questions can uncover even more. The only problem was that I already had a hunch about what had gone down and where they might be hiding.

My first stop was the local supermarkets. It's a basic rule of survival: even kidnappers need to eat. And if you're not prepared for a prolonged hostage situation, you're going to need to restock your pantry. I figured that's where I'd find my first lead. I struck out at the first two markets, but the third time was the charm. The supermarket hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, each flicker amplifying the urgency in my chest as I searched for clues. That's where I found a cashier. She remembered a regular customer, a woman who'd been buying the same groceries in the same quantities for years. Then, she suddenly doubled her order around the time of the kidnapping. I scanned the bustling aisles, my heart pounding with each step. Every shopper seemed like a potential witness, a piece of the puzzle I desperately needed to solve. She wouldn't give me the woman's address, but she did give me a detailed description and a sense of her shopping routine. It was a start, and I was ready to run with it.

For several days, I delegated the responsibility of keeping an eye on the store to a rookie. He patiently waited for the woman matching the cashier's description to pass by. The moment I received word that she had walked into the supermarket, I sprang into action, ready to tail her home. Although I knew I should have had backup, this was too personal, too close to my heart. I couldn't help but think of my own child whenever I thought of the one she had abducted. So, I tailed her home, and the moment she opened her front door, I pounced. She didn't even hear me approaching; it was the petrified expression on the boy's face that startled her, not one he gave her, but the one he was giving me. I levelled my gun at the kidnapper, and she recoiled away from me like Dracula shrinking from the sunlight.

I remembered Joel’s laughter, his tiny hands grasping at my fingers, and suddenly the boy in front of me was more than just a victim. He was a mirror reflecting my own child. I reassured the boy he was safe now, that I was there to protect him. But he didn't budge, didn't crack a smile, didn't even shed a tear. Instead, he gazed at his captor with a mixture of sadness and pity, as if he felt sorry for her rather than fearing her. Perhaps it was the glazed look in his eyes or the way he clung to his kidnapper's leg. I sensed that he had developed a twisted bond with her, one that I needed to carefully untangle.

He looked up at me, his voice trembling, "She isn’t a bad person." He explained to me that she'd lost her husband and son in the war, and that the emptiness of her home had become a weight she couldn't bear. She'd taken him, this young boy, because she didn't want to be alone anymore, didn't want to face the echoes of her past in the silence of her empty house. I tried to listen, I really did. I wanted to listen, to understand, to see the good in her that he saw. But as I stared into his eyes, glistening like morning mildew, I couldn't help but think of my own son. Of the way he smiled when I held him, of the way his eyes would light up when I spoke. Then, the woman stepped forward. She moved towards the boy, her arms outstretched in a maternal gesture. My brain couldn't react, but my body did. I pulled the trigger, a machine-like procedure that had become more natural to me than I'd care to admit. It was a movement born of instinct, of a primal need to protect my own, a need that had been honed by the harsh realities of this job I had thought I loved.

As I watched her fall, a whirlwind of emotions crashed over me — relief, horror, disbelief. What had I just done? Was I still the protector I believed myself to be?

The woman's sudden collapse sent shockwaves through the air, the sound of her body hitting the ground echoing through my mind long after it was over. The boy, overcome with emotion, erupted into a fit of tears, his small frame shaking with uncontrollable sobs. When I confronted the woman, bleeding out on the floor, my voice was steady, but the tremor in her reply shattered my resolve. "I just wanted someone to love," she whispered, and in that moment, my heart broke. I froze. My mind raced. What had I done? My usually sharp decision-making skills were clouded by the turmoil.

The only constant in that chaotic moment was the aching sense that I wanted to be home with my own little boy.