I never imagined that at seventy years old I would feel the same kind of dread I once knew in my youth.

That morning, I drove my daughter, Caroline, to the airport for her business trip. My seven-year-old grandson, Ethan, clung to my hand the entire time. His little face looked ghostly, his nerves frayed, as if some heavy shadow pressed on his small heart.

After Caroline disappeared behind security, Ethan tugged gently at my coat. His voice wavered in a way that chilled me.

“Grandma… please, can we not go home tonight?”

I crouched to meet his eyes, assuming it was just a childish worry. But his next words stopped my breath. He said he had overheard his mother on the phone early that morning—talking about a “gas leak” and making everything look like an “accident.”

I wanted desperately to believe he had misunderstood. But the fear in his eyes was too real, too raw, far too adult to be imagined. Continue reading…