For years, my son Peter and his wife, Betty, had stopped inviting me over. Their reasons were always vague — last-minute plans, ongoing renovations, a child feeling unwell. I didn’t press them on it. Families have their ups and downs, I told myself. Still, a quiet part of me couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more behind it.
One afternoon, on impulse, I decided to visit unannounced, bringing along a small gift for my granddaughter, Mia — a puzzle she’d once mentioned wanting. When we sat down on the floor to color together, she eagerly showed me one of her crayon drawings. It was a picture of their house — but something about it made me pause.
In one corner of the drawing, a lone figure stood in a small room beneath the house. “That’s Grandpa Jack,” Mia said matter-of-factly. “He lives in the basement.”
I froze. Grandpa Jack — my ex-husband. The man who had abandoned us more than twenty years ago and never looked back. He had simply disappeared from our lives without explanation.
When I first entered Peter and Betty’s house that day, I’d sensed something off — a strange tension in the air. They’d seemed startled by my visit, trying hard to act casual. I didn’t push it, but the feeling lingered.
A few days later, I found myself babysitting Mia again…