My six-year-old son burst into the supermarket where I worked, three miles from home, in tears, and gasping he shouted, “Mom, we have to go home right now… Dad…”

😲😲 My six-year-old son burst into the supermarket where I worked, three miles from home, in tears, and gasping he shouted, “Mom, we have to go home right now… Dad…”. A few minutes later I was already speeding down the street and saw several police cars with flashing lights outside our house.

I was calmly stocking items on the lower shelf in aisle nine when suddenly I heard muffled crying and my name behind me.

I turned sharply and saw my six-year-old son — barefoot, in pajamas, with tousled hair and a tear-streaked face.

He was standing in the middle of the supermarket, three miles from home, and in that moment I knew: something terrible had happened.

I rushed to him, unable to feel my legs, grabbed him by the shoulders, and asked where his father was.

My son only sobbed and begged me to go home immediately, unable to finish his sentence. The manager, seeing his condition, didn’t ask any questions — I tore off my apron and ran to the car.

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