For years, my son Peter and his wife Betty stopped inviting me over, always giving excuses. I brushed it off—families go through phases—but a small part of me wondered why.
One day, I dropped by unannounced with a gift for my granddaughter Mia. Something felt off. A few days later, while babysitting, Mia showed me a drawing of their house—with a figure in the basement. “That’s Grandpa Jack,” she said matter-of-factly.
Jack—my ex-husband, who had vanished twenty years ago—was living in their basement. Frail and worn, he apologized when I found him. Later, Peter explained: Jack had returned years ago, sick and broke. After a fire destroyed his apartment, Peter and Betty quietly took him in, never telling me to avoid conflict.
I was furious and hurt, feeling betrayed. I don’t know if I can forgive him. But at least now, finally, I know the truth.
