When I arrived home, my heart sank at the sight before me—my children, sitting on the porch, suitcases packed, confusion in their eyes. They told me I had instructed them to leave, but I hadn’t said any such thing.
As panic surged through me, a car pulled into the driveway, and when I saw who was behind the wheel, I knew things were about to take a turn for the worse.
My stomach churned as I rushed over to them. “What’s going on?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. My son, Jake, only ten years old, looked up at me, his confusion mirroring my own.
“You told us to pack,” he said quietly.