After a year abroad, I came home expecting hugs and Mom’s cooking — not a kitchen buried under dirty dishes and a sink that barely worked. When I offered to fix it, Mom panicked and insisted I leave it alone, which only made me more suspicious. The worry in her eyes didn’t match her cheerful chatter on the drive home, and the dark circles she tried to hide told their own story.
The moment we stepped into the kitchen, the mess hit me like a wall. Mom claimed the sink had been “acting up for a few weeks,” but the pipes looked untouched for decades. She wouldn’t explain why she hadn’t called anyone, dodging my questions with nervous smiles and excuses that didn’t track.
The next morning, I grabbed Dad’s old toolbox, remembering the Saturdays we’d fix things together before he passed. If Mom wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, I’d just have to find out myself. And when I finally opened those pipes while she was out, I uncovered a chilling truth she’d been hiding for years.
