Mom had once traced her hand over the table’s scratched surface and told me,
“This table has seen everything. Your tears, your schoolwork, your heartbreaks. And now it gets to see your kids grow, too.”
Every Sunday, she prepared her famous roast chicken, a recipe handed down from her mother that she had perfected over the years.
“That’s love,” she’d say when we asked what the secret was. “You can’t buy it in a store.”
Every Sunday morning, like clockwork, she’d text the family group chat:
“Dinner at 6. Bring Tupperware.”
It was her way of reminding us to come hungry and leave with enough for lunch the next day. We’d kept up this Sunday ritual for three straight years.
That’s why, one Sunday morning, when I checked my phone and saw a message that read only, “Please don’t come today,” my stomach dropped.
No emoji. No explanation. Just a short sentence, like a slammed door.
It felt cold. So out of character for my mom.
I immediately texted back.
“Are you okay?”
She read the message, but didn’t answer.
Panic rose in my chest. Seconds later, Brian messaged me:
“I tried calling Mom, but she’s not picking up. Did you talk to her?”
I hadn’t, and now my hands were trembling. Something felt seriously wrong.
“I’m heading there right now,” I typed.
“Already in the car,” Brian replied.
The short drive to Mom’s felt like it lasted forever. I called again and again, but her phone went straight to voicemail.
Maybe she was sick, I told myself. Maybe she needed space. But in my gut, I knew it was something more. Mom had never canceled Sunday dinner.
When I pulled into the driveway, I immediately noticed something was off.
The curtains were drawn tightly shut, and the porch light from the night before was still on. Mom always switched it off in the morning.
