I wiped my face fast and opened the door.
A police officer stood on my porch. Young. Clean cut. Serious.
“Are you Linda?” he asked.
I nodded because my throat wouldn’t cooperate.
He held out a folded note. “This is for you.”
My name was on it. The handwriting was familiar enough to make my hands go numb.
Grant.
I unfolded it right there, under the porch light.
Mom, don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to him and get in the car.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Grant was my wild one. The one I worried about when my phone rang late.
The officer said, “Ma’am, I need you to come with me.”
I looked up, panicked. “Is my son alive?”
His eyes flicked away for half a second.
“Please,” I whispered. “Is Grant alive?”
“He’ll explain everything.”
I glanced back into my house. The table was set. The food was waiting. The candles were dying.
“My children were supposed to be here,” I heard myself say.
“I’m sorry,” he replied quietly.
I grabbed my cardigan, locked the door out of habit, and got into the cruiser. The back seat smelled like disinfectant and old fear. The door shut with a heavy click.
“Just tell me if my son is okay.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“Not far where?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Safe from what? Did Grant get hurt? Did he do something?”
“Ma’am, please.”
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Just tell me if my son is okay.”
“You’ll have answers soon. I promise.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark:
“Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.”
Trust us. After four hours of silence.
I typed back: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Delivered, but not read.
“Are they in danger?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then why am I in a police car?”
“Just hold on.”
We pulled into a parking lot. A community center I recognized—the one where I used to sit on hard bleachers cheering for my kids.
Cars were parked out front. Cars I knew. Mark’s SUV. Sarah’s sedan. Jason’s truck.
My mouth went dry. “What is this?”
The officer led me to the entrance.
Through the glass, I saw movement.
He opened the door. The lights snapped on.
“HAPPY—” Jason started, then froze.
The banner read: HAPPY 60TH, MOM.
Balloons. Streamers. A cake. And five of my children standing there.
I stood very still.
“So you were all here.”
Mark stepped forward. “Mom, wait—”
“I waited four hours,” I said. “Four.”
“We weren’t ignoring you,” Jason said quickly. “We wanted to surprise you. Grant was supposed to pick you up.”
“Where is Grant?”
Eliza’s eyes filled. “We thought…”
Sarah snapped, “Why is there a cop with you? What happened?”
“I sat alone at that table,” I said. “Like an idiot.”
Mark’s face crumpled. “We were trying to keep it a surprise. Grant said he had it handled.”
My heartbeat sped up again.
I turned to the officer. “Where is Grant?”
“He’s not here yet.”
Jason frowned. “He said he’d be here by seven.”
Mark checked his phone. “He’s not answering.”
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