After spending a year abroad, I came home to my mom’s house. She was thrilled to see me, but the place had clearly changed—especially the kitchen faucet, which barely worked. She brushed it off, saying she “forgot” to call a plumber. The next morning, I grabbed my tools, ready to fix it myself, but she hurried in, almost panicking, insisting I leave it alone. No matter how much I pressed, she never gave a real explanation.
Days passed, then weeks. Washing dishes in the bathroom sink felt ridiculous, and her refusal to let me fix the faucet only made me more suspicious. Whenever I offered to call someone or fix it myself, she’d change the subject or walk away. Something was definitely wrong, and the uneasiness settled in my stomach like a stone.
One day, she went out shopping, and I decided enough was enough. I took the pipes apart, expecting to find old food or grease buildup. Instead, my hands froze over what I pulled out. Hidden deep inside were tightly wrapped stacks of cash—thousands of dollars shoved into the plumbing like some secret stash from a crime movie.
My mind raced. Why had she kept this hidden? Was she in trouble? Saving in secret? Or hiding money from someone? By the time she came home, I was sitting at the table with the wet bundles of bills in front of me. She went pale, tears filling her eyes. Whatever story I thought I knew about my family suddenly felt like only the surface—and I realized I had no idea what my mother had been protecting us from.
