When my son Stuart asked to host his birthday party at my home, I didn’t hesitate. It had been a long time since I’d heard genuine warmth in his voice, and I was hopeful this would be a step toward reconnecting. He promised a small, quiet evening with friends. I planned to stay at my friend Martha’s for the night and left him the keys, thinking it was a small gesture that might bring us closer.
The next morning, I returned expecting a few cups to clean up and maybe a messy kitchen. But as I approached, something felt off. The front door was ajar, one window broken, and dark marks streaked the outside wall. Inside, my heart sank—furniture damaged, dishes broken, family keepsakes ruined. It looked more like a disaster scene than the result of a birthday gathering.
And then I found the note. Folded neatly on the counter in Stuart’s handwriting, it said:
“We had a bit of a wild party to say goodbye to our youth. You might need to tidy up a little.”
I called him—no answer. Left voicemails that started calm and ended tearful. It was hard to accept what had happened. I sat in the wreckage, overwhelmed, before I finally began sweeping the glass and trying to make sense of it all.
Not long after, Martha and her caretaker Janine arrived. She took one look at the house and told me gently, “Come over later. We need to talk.”
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