When she left, Liam had just turned two. He stumbled when he walked, laughed every time he said “Mommy,” and fell asleep holding her finger.
Now he was four.
But the child before her, inside the spotless white living room of their mansion in Buckhead, didn't look like a four-year-old at all.
He was on the floor barefoot, wearing filthy clothes. His hair was matted from not being bathed, and his arms were so thin they looked like sticks. He wasn't walking. He crawled on all fours after a plastic ball, making soft, broken sounds that resembled the frightened whimpers of a wounded animal.