The days leading up to Christmas were supposed to be filled with joy and excitement, especially with my 8-year-old granddaughter around, whose eyes twinkled brighter than the Christmas lights we’d hung together. But this year, something was different. Her innocent whispers, cloaked as secrets, revealed a truth that I was not ready to confront.
“Grandma, Mom says you won’t be here this year.” Her words were supposed to bounce off like a joke, yet they lingered in the air, heavy and unsettling. I laughed outwardly, hoping to dismiss her comment as a child’s misunderstanding. But inside, uncertainty gnawed at me.
In our small town, family and home are the foundations of everything. It’s a place where trust is built in every shared meal and conversation. But when I returned home early that evening, the foundation felt shaky. From the hallway, I could hear drawers being yanked open and shut with a sense of urgency. My heart sank as I approached the partially ajar door of my bedroom, catching my daughter and son-in-law in the midst of a frantic search.
