The plan was to be chill. Drop him off, help carry a few boxes, maybe take a picture if he let me, and then drive off like every other proud parent. I’d practiced it in my head. No big tears. No guilt trips. Let him start his life.

We made it through the drive, the unpacking, and even the roommate introductions without a hitch. He looked excited—nervous, but excited. He was wearing that same smirk he always does when he’s trying to hide emotion.

But when we stood in the common area to say goodbye, something shifted.

He hugged me, then didn’t let go right away.

“You okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah,” he said. But his voice cracked just a little.

I pulled back and looked at him. “You sure?”

He nodded. “I just—Dad, if something weird happens, can I call you? Like even if it’s the middle of the night?”

Weird? I tried to keep my face calm. “Of course. Always.”

Then he leaned in, real low, and whispered something I haven’t stopped thinking about since—

“If I call and say the phrase ‘I left the kettle on,’ come get me. No questions.”

It was so odd, I thought maybe it was a joke. But his face wasn’t joking. His eyes were darting around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

I smiled, trying to downplay it. “Alright. ‘Kettle on.’ Got it.”

He nodded like that settled something for him. Then he straightened up and gave me one last quick hug before disappearing back into his dorm. I got in the car and tried to shake the unease.

Weeks passed.

We texted a bit. A few calls here and there. He mentioned classes were tough, that his roommate snored like a train, and that he missed proper food. Nothing alarming.

Still, I couldn’t forget that phrase.

Then, about six weeks in, my phone rang at 2:13 in the morning.

It was him.

I picked up instantly, heart racing. “You alright?”

His voice was quiet. Shaky.

“I left the kettle on.”