My mother promised to take my son on a trip with my sister’s family and left that night. Not long after, a loud knock shook my door. My son stood there sobbing, suitcase in hand. They told him he “had no ticket” and left him behind. When they came back, they were forced to face a truth that shattered everything they thought they could get away with.

Still, Oliver was excited. He packed his small blue suitcase, stuffed his favorite hoodie inside, and talked nonstop about seeing the ocean. Before leaving, I knelt in front of him.

“Listen to Grandma,” I said. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” he promised, hugging me tight.

They left just before dusk.

I spent the evening trying to focus on emails, telling myself to relax. Around 9 p.m., someone pounded on my front door. Not knocked—pounded.

My heart dropped.

I opened it to see Oliver standing on the porch, eyes red, cheeks streaked with dried tears. He was dragging his suitcase behind him, one wheel broken.

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