When my husband Mike began taking our children to visit his mother every Saturday, I didn’t think twice. He had always been a devoted father to seven-year-old Ava and five-year-old Ben—playing hide-and-seek in the backyard, attending every school event, and never missing bedtime stories. His mother, Diane, adored the kids, baking cookies and teaching them to knit. Since losing her husband the year before, it made sense that Mike wanted to spend more time with her. I admired him for it.
But gradually, small things started to feel… off. Diane stopped mentioning the visits during our weekly calls. When I asked if she enjoyed seeing the kids, her tone hesitated, as if she were holding something back. Mike insisted I stay home to “rest,” brushing off my offers to come along. Then one brisk Saturday morning, Ava rushed into the house, curls bouncing, and whispered, “Mommy… Grandma is just a secret code.” Before I could ask what she meant, she darted away, leaving me with a sinking feeling I couldn’t shake.
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