Our car was a disaster. Between my husband Ben’s construction job and the whirlwind of raising a five-year-old, it felt less like transportation and more like a rolling storage unit. Muddy boots, snack wrappers, scattered tools, and our son Liam’s trail of crayons, juice boxes, and mystery crumbs were everywhere. But one quiet Saturday, with Ben at work and Liam home with me, I decided it was finally time to tackle the mess.
Liam was thrilled to help, gripping his sponge like it was a superhero gadget. We were making progress—until he sat on the curb and asked, “Mom, why don’t we just take the secret car Daddy drives?” I paused, mid-scrub. “Secret car?” I asked carefully. Liam nodded. “Yeah, the shiny black one. The lady with curly hair gives him the keys. They were laughing.”
My heart skipped a beat. He mentioned he saw it while our babysitter Jenna was with him and I was out visiting my mom. I smiled and nodded, but inside, a dozen questions raced through my mind.
That night, after Liam was asleep, I sat at the kitchen table, thinking. Ben had seemed distracted lately. I texted my friend Sarah and asked to borrow her car. I told Ben I’d be visiting my mom and heading out afterward with Sarah. He barely looked up from the TV. Jenna stayed with Liam, and soon Sarah and I were parked down the street, iced coffees in hand, watching.
Continue reading on next page…