A year ago, I believed my son had passed away. It was incredibly difficult, but my closest friend, Sarah, kept urging me, “You have to move on,” and eventually, I found a way to cope. After some time, she got a job in another city and moved away. Wanting to surprise her, I decided to visit, but when I entered her house, I was stunned. There was my son, alive and well.
“Mom?” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and joy.
I stood there, paralyzed. Sarah rushed forward, her face pale. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she stammered. “He’s an adopted boy.”
I couldn’t believe it. My mind raced. How could this be? I went to the authorities and explained everything. They took my statement seriously and launched an investigation.
Days turned into weeks, and the tension between Sarah and me grew unbearable. She avoided me, and I couldn’t look at her without feeling a surge of betrayal. The police questioned her extensively, and eventually, the truth came out.
It turned out that my son had been taken, not passed away as I had been led to believe. The story of his death had been fabricated by Sarah, who was involved in illegal activities. She had always been there, comforting me, while secretly knowing my son was alive and in her care.
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