When my daughter arrived unexpectedly with my grandson, I felt a surge of concern. Her usual spontaneity felt different this time, and my heart raced when I peeked into my grandson’s suitcase. Would she come back for him? Or had something gone terribly wrong?
Jane stepped inside that Saturday, looking drained but masking it with a tired smile that only a mother could see through. She asked me for a favor: “Mom, I need you to watch him for a couple of weeks… maybe longer.” The way her hands fidgeted with her purse strap hinted that something was deeply wrong.
I immediately agreed; I loved spending time with Tommy. But I pressed her, asking how long she would be gone and what this trip was about. She gave a vague reply about a last-minute project, avoiding my gaze, and quickly hugged me goodbye before rushing out the door.
That evening, as Tommy spilled juice at dinner, I went to his suitcase for clean clothes and discovered it was packed for much longer than a couple of weeks. There were clothes for different seasons, toys, and medicine. Panic set in as I realized Jane hadn’t planned to return anytime soon.
At the bottom of the suitcase, I found a white envelope with my name in her handwriting. Inside was a large sum of cash, enough to last a while. Why hadn’t she told me the truth? I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail.
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