He avoided my eyes for half a second — just long enough for panic to explode in my chest.

“Please,” I begged. “Is Grant alive?”

“I can’t discuss that here,” he said quietly. “But you need to come with me.”

I looked back into my house. The birthday table was still waiting. The candles were nearly burned down.

“My children were supposed to be here tonight,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

I locked the door and got into the police car.

During the drive, anxiety twisted inside me.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Not far.”

“Not far where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

My phone buzzed. A message from Mark appeared:

“Mom, please don’t panic. Just trust us.”

Trust them — after four hours of silence.

Finally, the police car pulled into the parking lot of a community center I recognized.

Outside were cars that looked familiar.

Mark’s SUV.
Sarah’s sedan.
Jason’s truck.

Confused and shaking, I followed the officer inside.

The doors opened.

The lights flicked on.

“HAPPY—” Jason began shouting before stopping abruptly when he saw my face.

Decorations filled the room. Balloons. Streamers. A banner that read:

“HAPPY 60TH MOM.”

Five of my children stood there looking nervous and guilty.

“So… you were all here,” I said quietly.

Mark stepped forward quickly.

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