For years, I rarely called my mom. Working on Wall Street kept me so busy that our calls became less and less frequent, practically disappearing altogether. Still, I always assumed she was fine.
One day, I needed to pick up some important documents from her house. I decided to fly back home without telling her, thinking it might be a nice surprise and that she’d be happy to see me.
But when I arrived, the sight in front of me froze me in place.
Our house—my childhood home—was completely destroyed. The walls were torn down, the roof was gone, and everything looked abandoned, ruined, and lifeless. My heart dropped. Where was my mom?
With shaking hands, I tried calling her over and over, but she didn’t answer. The cold ringing on the other end only made the panic worse. I felt my chest tighten as a wave of fear washed over me.
I sank to my knees right there on the empty lot and burst into tears, devastated by the thought that I might have lost my mom without even noticing the signs.
