My 8-year-old son came home, hugged me, and whispered, “They ate at a restaurant while I waited in the car for two hours.” I didn’t ask any questions. I simply grabbed my keys, drove to my parents’ house, walked in, and without hesitation, I did this…

I froze. The dish towel in my hand stopped moving mid-wipe on the granite counter.

“What did you say?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.

He pulled back, looking up at me with eyes that weren’t angry or tearful, but confused. “Grandma and Grandpa. They went into the Italian place. They left me in the parked car. I waited for two hours.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. My brain tried to reject the information. It was ninety degrees outside today. A humid, stifling heat that made the asphalt shimmer.

“Did they… did they leave the car running?” I asked, my hands beginning to tremble.

“No,” Ethan said simply. “But they cracked the windows a little bit. Dad, I’m really thirsty.”

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