I returned home to find my children sitting on the porch with their suitcases packed, looking confused. They said I had instructed them to leave, but I hadn’t made any such request. My heart raced as a car pulled into the driveway, and my anxiety grew when I saw who was behind the wheel.
As I parked the car, I saw my kids waiting on the steps with their bags. We hadn’t planned any trips, so why were they outside like this?
I rushed over, asking, “What’s happening?”
My son, Jake, looked up at me, fear and confusion in his eyes. “You told us to pack and wait for Dad,” he said, glancing at his younger sister, Emily, who was holding her stuffed rabbit.
“I didn’t send any such message,” I said, kneeling down, my hands trembling. “Let me see your phone.”
Jake handed me his phone, and as I read the message, I felt a chill:
“This is your mom. Pack your stuff, take the cash I left, and wait for Dad. He’ll be there soon.”
I was stunned; I hadn’t sent this message. Emily’s voice broke through my panic. “Mom, are we going with Dad?”
“No, sweetheart,” I said firmly. “You’re staying here.”
Just then, a car engine roared as my ex-husband, Lewis, pulled into the driveway. I told my children to go inside as I faced Lewis.
“Leaving the kids outside like this? Great parenting,” he sneered.
I was furious. “What are you doing? You had no right to do this.”
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