It had only been a week since everything changed. My home had been broken into, and with it, my life savings—gone. Years of hard work, late nights, and missed holidays vanished in a moment. The police had no leads, and I was left trying to carry on. At least, on the outside.
But the real heartbreak didn’t come from the thief. It came from my own son.
Jake was twenty-five, still figuring things out. He was thoughtful, artistic, and had big dreams of making it in the creative world. But dreams don’t pay rent. He hadn’t been able to hold down a job, and I’d quietly picked up the slack for years. Still, I believed in him—because that’s what mothers do.
After the robbery, he tried to comfort me. Said things would get better. But something in his voice didn’t sit right. Too calm. Too disconnected. I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Then came the moment that turned suspicion into confusion. I was in the grocery store parking lot when a red sports car drove past. Behind the wheel? Jake. My son, who’d been struggling just weeks ago, now driving a car that cost more than everything I owned.
Back home, I confronted him.
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