I came home midday to grab my tablet, expecting an empty house. Instead, the attic ladder was down—and I heard a child’s voice.
Our house is usually chaotic—four kids, three under ten, and our oldest, Aaron, 13. Silence almost always signals trouble.
But that afternoon, the house should have been empty. My heart skipped when I heard Aaron and a calm, deliberate woman: “Aaron, remember, put this in Mom’s bag, okay?”
My stomach flipped. Who was in my attic with my son, and what were they doing?
I crept closer, trembling, debating whether to call the police or climb up. Then a whisper of laughter made my skin prickle.
Finally, I called out, “Aaron?”
The noises stopped. Then his head popped down, hair messy, eyes wide. “Mom! You’re not supposed to be home yet!”
My heart was still racing.
