When my daughter, Jane, unexpectedly dropped off my grandson, Tommy, saying she needed to go on a sudden work trip, I was surprised but didn’t question her much—until I looked in his suitcase later that night. It wasn’t packed for a week or two—it held clothes for every season, medications, and even an envelope of cash with my name on it. That’s when I realized: Jane might not be coming back. I tried calling her,
, but her phone was off. Days passed with no word. I reached out to friends, coworkers—no one had seen her. I was terrified. Then, out of nowhere, she video-called me. Her face was tired, her words vague. She claimed she was on a secret assignment and couldn’t say where she was. It didn’t make sense, and she refused to talk more,
only asking to speak with Tommy. The truth was far darker than she let on. Jane had been hiding Tommy’s father from us—a dangerous man who had recently resurfaced. Fearing for her son’s safety, she staged a normal visit to leave him with me, erasing all traces of him from her home in case the man came looking. Weeks later,
Jane returned—exhausted, relieved, but still full of secrets. She thanked me, promising she was safe, though I knew there was more she wasn’t saying. As she left with Tommy, I stood at the door praying for their safety, knowing that the shadows she fled from might never fully let her go.
