Every Sunday, my mom texts the family group: “Dinner at 6. Bring tupperware.” It’s our ritual — a comforting anchor no matter how busy we get.
So when I woke up today to see at 10 a.m.: “PLEASE DON’T COME TODAY,” with no emojis, no explanation, no “love you,” my heart dropped. I thought it might be a prank.
I messaged her: “Mom? Everything okay?” The delivery check appeared — then nothing. Mom never leaves me on read. Five minutes later, my brother texted: “I called Mom, she isn’t picking up. Did you talk to her?” I hadn’t. I called; it rang once — then silence.
Something told me something was wrong. I grabbed my keys and rushed over. Though the drive takes ten minutes, it felt like an hour. When I arrived, the curtains were closed — unusual, since Mom always opens them first thing. I knocked, rang the doorbell — nothing.
I pulled out the spare key Mom gave me “just in case.” Inside, the house was dark, silent. Her shoes sat by the door, her purse on the entry table. She was home.
I called out: “Mom?” My voice echoed. I turned the corner — and screamed.
There she was, sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by hundreds of photos — old ones, new ones, black-and-white childhood pictures. Albums open, boxes overturned, pictures scattered like fallen leaves. She sat quietly, tears streaming down her face, clutching one photo to her chest.
I rushed to her. “Mom! Are you hurt? What happened?” She shook her head, unable to speak. My brother knelt beside her: “Mom, please say something.”
Finally she whispered: “I thought I lost all of you.”
We exchanged worried looks. With trembling hands, she handed me her phone — the screen showed a message she’d accidentally sent at dawn… to a different group chat with her old coworkers.
The story doesn’t end here — the next page reveals what we discovered next.