He looked up at me, eyes wide and wet in a way no child should ever look at their father.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, leaned forward, and grabbed my arm tightly.
“Dad… please,” he whispered. “We can’t go home.”
A cold chill ran down my spine.
“What do you mean we can’t go home?”
“Please. Don’t go back. Please.”
This wasn’t imagination. This wasn’t a bad dream.
This was fear.
Real fear.
I pulled over and turned on the hazard lights.
“Tell me exactly what’s going on.”
He swallowed hard, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Mom didn’t go to New York,” he said. “She’s lying.”
My heart skipped.
“We just saw her go inside the airport.”
“I heard her this morning,” he insisted. “In the bathroom. The shower was running, but she was talking to someone.”
“Who?”
“…Uncle Ryan.”
My stomach dropped.
Ryan—my son-in-law. My daughter Megan’s husband.
“What did you hear?”
Tyler hesitated, like repeating it made it worse.
“He said… tonight was your last night.” His voice broke. “He said if the medicine didn’t work… he’d bring a gun.”
The world went silent.
For weeks, I’d felt off.
Dizzy at night. Nauseous. Weak. Sharp pains in my chest.