My Son Didn’t Answer The Phone For Two Weeks. So I Decided To Go To His House Quietly. But When I Arrived, Something Moved Under My Grandson’s Bed. When The Officer Lifted The Bed, What We Found Left Us All SPEECHLESS. BECAUSE…

Not after he had just said those horrible words. The doctor checked Matthew and gave him a mild sedative to calm him down. He slowly stopped crying, but his eyes remained red, looking at me with a pain I couldn’t soothe.

I stroked his hair, whispering, “Grandma’s here, Matthew. I’m not going anywhere.”

But inside, I felt like I was falling into an abyss. If Daniel was really… I couldn’t dare to finish the thought.

I remembered the last time I saw my son, when he came to visit me in my town, bringing me a sweet corn cake that I love so much. “Mom, take care of yourself, okay?” he said with his bright smile. Now that smile felt like a distant memory, erased by the detective’s words and Matthew’s cries.

An hour had passed since the detective called about the blood in Daniel’s house, and now they were at the hospital with a recorder and a notebook. A young, tall, and slim police officer sat by the bed and said in a soft but careful voice, “Matthew, can you tell us and your grandma what happened?”

I felt Matthew tremble in my arms, his thin little shoulders tensing up. He lowered his head, clutching the teddy bear in his hands, as if holding on to something to keep from sinking.

I stroked his hair and whispered, “It’s okay, Matthew. Just tell us. Grandma is right here with you.”

I tried to make my voice sound calm, but inside I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff.

I was scared of what he was going to say, but at the same time, I needed to know the truth—no matter how painful. After a few minutes of silence, Matthew nodded slightly, a movement so small it broke my heart. I held my breath, squeezing his shoulder, and listened to each of his weak, broken words, as if each one was a shattered piece of his soul.

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