He came home with slightly burnt cookies and the biggest smile.
Cute, right? Nothing weird yet.
But over the next few weeks, something did start to feel off.
Gerry kept returning with cookies… and stories… and then one day, he came home waving an envelope.
Inside was a $10 bill.
“Ms. Abby paid me!” he said proudly.
Paid him… for baking?
An elderly woman living alone handing a kid envelopes of cash?
My mom radar lit up like a Christmas tree.
But I waited. I watched.
Until he came home with another envelope — this time $20 — and a fidgety look he only got when he was hiding something.
I pushed gently.
He insisted everything was “fine.”
But he wouldn’t look at me.
That’s when I knew he wasn’t telling the whole story.
The next afternoon, I walked him to Ms. Abby’s. He darted inside before I could even say hello. My stomach twisted.
So I did what any panicked mom would (don’t judge):
I circled the house.
At the back window, I spotted a tiny crack in the curtains… and froze.
Gerry wasn’t baking.
He and Ms. Abby were bent over a table covered in photos — of HIM and ME.
Some from my social media.
Some candid shots I’d never seen before.
My heart dropped.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t breathe.
I marched to the back door — unlocked — and stormed in.
“What is going on?!”
Ms. Abby turned white.
Within seconds, I was outside dialing the police, one hand gripping Gerry’s shoulder.
Two officers arrived quickly and went inside to speak with her.
After a few minutes, one came out and said gently:
“You should hear her explanation.”
I didn’t want to go back in.
But I wasn’t letting Gerry out of my sight.
Inside, Ms. Abby sat trembling.
She held one of the photos with shaking hands.
And then everything spilled out.
Her grandson — the same age as Gerry — had passed away along with her daughter a few years back.
The scrapbook they once made together was one of her most cherished memories.
Gerry had told her my birthday was coming up.
He’d wanted to make me something special.
She’d simply helped him collect photos and print them — the “mystery money” he said he earned from baking.
She hadn’t told me because she didn’t know how.
He hadn’t told me because he wanted it to be a surprise.
And just like that, my panic, fear, and suspicion evaporated…
replaced by a giant, burning wave of embarrassment.
I apologized — more than once.
We finished the scrapbook together that week.
And slowly, the woman the neighborhood feared began stepping out of her lonely bubble.
She tended her garden again.
Shared cookies with the neighborhood kids.
Chatted — awkwardly, but sweetly — with neighbors.
She wasn’t scary.
She was healing.
And it turned out, my son helped her more than either of us realized.