As a single mother, I always worried about my son Kyle. His father had walked out on us before he was born, making Kyle and I a team. No matter how hard life got, whether it was juggling bills or working long hours at my job, we had each other. However, lately, Kyle’s behavior had changed. He was coming home later each day, making vague excuses and acting secretive.
At first, I thought it was just teenage rebellion, but when I found a stash of new gadgets and a thick stack of cash under his bed, my worry turned into fear. I knew that Kyle was smart and resourceful, but there was no way he could have earned that much money from mowing lawns or odd jobs. Something was wrong.
Instead of confronting him directly, I decided to investigate. The following day, I parked my car down the street from his school and watched as the kids poured out, carefree and laughing. That’s when I saw it – a convoy of black SUVs with tinted windows pulled up in front of the school. My heart raced when I saw Kyle walk straight towards the middle vehicle and slip inside as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Without hesitation, I started my car and followed them.
The SUVs drove beyond the edge of town, where modest homes gave way to sprawling estates. Marble gates loomed ahead, and the convoy glided through. I managed to slip in just before the gates shut, my hands gripping the wheel as I realized how out of place I was in this world of manicured lawns and luxury.
The SUVs stopped in front of an enormous mansion, grand and cold, the kind of place that screamed wealth and privilege. I stepped out of my car, determined but shaking, and marched up to the front door. I rang the intercom, and a sleek, sharp-eyed woman answered.
“Yes? What are you doing here?” she asked coolly.
“I’m here for my son, Kyle,” I said, my voice trembling with anger and fear.
Her lips curled into a mocking smile. “You’re Kyle’s mother? Wait here.”
Moments later, Kyle appeared at the door. His face flickered with guilt and surprise when he saw me. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
“Let me in, Kyle,” I demanded. “I need answers.”
Kyle hesitated but turned to the woman. “Please, Ms. Anderson. Let her in.”
Inside, the mansion was as cold and imposing as the exterior. Marble floors, gilded mirrors, and pristine furniture screamed opulence but offered no warmth. My heart pounded as we walked into a grand living room, where a man stood by the fireplace, his posture relaxed yet commanding.
I froze. It was him – Kyle’s father. The man who had walked out of my life before Kyle was even born.
“Miranda,” he said smoothly, as if no time had passed. “You look well.”
