When I talk to my mom, it’s almost always in the quiet parts of the day. Early evening. One of us cooking, the other driving. The conversations are small and ordinary—weather updates, grocery prices, whatever strange treasure she found at the thrift store that week. Comfort disguised as routine.
And every single time, without fail, she ends the call the same way.
So when my office closed a few days early before Christmas, the idea came to me suddenly and felt right in my bones. I didn’t tell them. I packed my car with a tin of homemade gingerbread cookies and a container of fudge—Mom’s favorite, the kind she used to sneak pieces of while pretending she was “just checking the texture.”
The drive home took five hours, but it didn’t feel long. Snowbanks grew taller. Christmas music crackled through the radio. I found myself smiling at memories I hadn’t touched in years—Dad swearing at tangled lights, Mom in her reindeer apron, the house glowing with warmth and noise.
I felt like a kid again.
That feeling vanished the moment I turned onto their street.
The porch was dark. No lights. No wreath. No glowing decorations in the yard.
And in the driveway sat a brand-new silver Lexus.
I parked behind it, unease spreading through me. The house looked wrong—quiet in a way it never had been before. I stepped out with the cookie tin tucked under my arm and knocked.
Nothing. Continue reading…
