For three months, every Saturday morning followed the same routine. My husband would pack the kids into the car and tell me they were off to visit “grandma.” He’d insist that I stay home, rest, and enjoy some quiet time to myself. I never questioned it — I appreciated the peace, the stillness, the rare chance to breathe.
But after a while, something started to feel off. He never invited me to come along, even when I offered. He’d smile and say, “You deserve a break. It’s just me and the kids. Family time.” It sounded thoughtful, but a small, uneasy feeling began to grow inside me.
One morning, as they were heading out, my daughter ran back inside to grab her jacket. I called out playfully, “Say hi to grandma for me!”
She froze. Her face went pale.
“Mom,” she whispered, “what are you talking about?”
“Grandma,” I repeated, still smiling. “You’re going to see her, right?”
Her eyes widened. “Dad said we’re not supposed to talk about it.” Then she turned and ran back to the car before I could ask anything more.
My stomach dropped. Not supposed to talk about it? What could possibly be so secret about visiting a grandmother?
The moment the car pulled away, I grabbed my keys and followed. I kept my distance, my heart pounding as I watched him take a turn away from his mother’s neighborhood and head toward the city instead.
