I had grown used to the excuses. Every time I asked to visit my son Peter and his family, there was always a reason I couldn’t come over. “We’re renovating,” they’d say, or “Mia has a cold.” I accepted it, though deep down, it hurt.
Then, on a whim, I decided to stop by unexpectedly with a little gift for my granddaughter. The moment I stepped inside, the air felt heavy with tension. Peter and Betty seemed startled, their smiles forced. I ignored my unease, chalking it up to the surprise visit.
But everything changed when Mia showed me her latest artwork. It was a bright, cheerful drawing of her home—complete with a mysterious figure in the basement.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the man in her picture.
“Grandpa Jack!” she replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
My blood ran cold. Jack—my ex-husband—had disappeared from our lives years ago. Yet here he was, living beneath their roof all this time. The truth had been hidden in plain sight, revealed by a child’s innocent crayon strokes.
