When I arrived home, I found my children sitting on the porch, bags packed, looking confused. My heart raced. “What’s going on?”
Jake, my ten-year-old son, replied softly, “You told us to pack and wait for Dad. He was coming to get us.”
I froze. “I never sent that message. Let me see your phone.”
Reading the text, my blood ran cold: “This is your mom. Pack your stuff, take the cash I left, and wait for Dad.”
Panic surged through me. I hadn’t sent it. I looked up just as a car pulled into the driveway. It was Lewis, my ex-husband.
“Kids, go inside,” I said quietly. As they retreated, I turned to Lewis. “What are you trying to pull?”
“Just looking out for them,” he sneered.
“You lost custody for a reason,” I shot back.
He smirked. “Maybe that was a mistake.”
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