The laughter still echoed in your mind. Cooper’s bubbly giggles had filled the park that day, mixing with the cheerful sounds of other children playing and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could still picture his little hand clasping yours as he tugged you toward the swings, his face alight with excitement. "Higher, Mommy!" he'd said, his eyes sparkling as you gently pushed him on the swing, his laughter ringing out as his tiny legs kicked into the air.

It was such a perfect day—or so it had seemed. You’d turned for just a moment, just long enough to grab the water bottle from your bag. That was when it happened. A figure had appeared from nowhere, snatching Cooper up in an instant. The memory replayed in your mind like a nightmare you couldn’t escape: the sound of his terrified cry, your own scream piercing the air, your desperate hands reaching for him, only to be shoved aside. You’d fought, clawing, yelling, doing everything you could to stop them, but they were too strong, too fast. In the blink of an eye, they were gone, and so was Cooper.

You’d collapsed to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt as the world seemed to spin around you.

Now, four years later, the memory of that moment still haunted you, an open wound that never fully healed. Your life hadn’t been the same since. The image of Cooper’s smiling face remained etched in your mind, both a source of comfort and heartbreak. Not a day went by that you didn’t think of him, wonder where he was, or pray that he was safe.

You never gave up hope. You couldn’t. Every morning, you woke up with the same resolve: to find your son. His picture was always with you, worn at the edges from the countless times you’d shown it to strangers. Every lead was followed, every tip investigated, no matter how far-fetched. People had told you to let go, to move on, but they didn’t understand. Cooper wasn’t just a memory—he was your son, and you wouldn’t stop until you brought him home.