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.

“Mom…” he said quietly. “They said I didn’t have a ticket. I couldn’t get on the plane.”

I stared at him, my mind refusing to catch up. “What do you mean you didn’t have a ticket?”

He sniffed. “Grandma was arguing with the lady at the counter. Aunt Rachel was mad. Then Grandma told me to sit down. She said they’d ‘handle it.’ But they got on the plane.”

My hands started shaking as I pulled him inside. “They left you? At the airport?”

He nodded. “Grandma called a ride-share and sent me home. She said you’d understand.”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I tucked Oliver onto the couch, made him hot chocolate, and waited until his breathing slowed.

Then I picked up my phone and called my mother.

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