Every morning, I accompany my husband and our five-year-old son to the station. That day, as we walked home, my son squeezed my hand. “Mom, we can’t go home today.” “Why?” I asked. He hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “…Dad…” Feeling anguished, we hid and secretly observed the house. What I saw left me speechless.
Every weekday morning, my routine was always the same. I accompanied my husband, Daniel, and our five-year-old son, Ethan, to the station before walking home alone. Daniel worked in the city as a financial advisor, and Ethan attended the daycare center near our house. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was stable; or so I thought.
However, that morning, I sensed something was wrong the moment Ethan squeezed my hand harder than usual as we walked back to the car after dropping Daniel off. His little fingers were cold and trembling.
“Mom,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on the floor, “we can’t go home today.”
I laughed nervously. “Why not? Did you forget something?”
He shook his head. Then he leaned toward me, his voice barely a whisper.
“…Dad…”
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