When I first agreed to let my six-year-old son spend two weeks at my mother-in-law’s estate, I thought I was giving him a gift. It was a family tradition, after all — every summer, she invited all her grandchildren for an elaborate “grandkids-only” holiday. For years, my boy had watched his older cousins come back tan, beaming, and full of stories about treasure hunts, pool parties, and fireworks in the manicured gardens.
I thought this was finally his turn to belong. Betsy, my husband Dave’s mother, was a woman of precision and presence. Always dressed like she had just stepped out of a lifestyle magazine, she lived in an estate so sprawling it had its own staff.
Everything about her life gleamed — the polished floors, the clipped hedges, the smile she offered in public. When she called to extend the invitation, her voice carried that polite, frosty tone she always used with me. “Alicia,” she said, “I think Timmy’s finally old enough to join the summer retreat.”
Timmy’s eyes had gone wide when I told him.
“Really, Mom? I can go this time?” He jumped up and down, chattering about pool races and sleepovers with his cousins. Dave ruffled his hair, smiling.
“You’re going to have the time of your life, buddy.”
The day we dropped him off, the estate gates swung open to reveal a scene from a movie — marble steps, cascading flower beds, a glittering pool just beyond the patio. Betsy stood there in her cream linen suit, arms wide for Timmy. She hugged him tightly, kissed his hair, and smiled at me with the kind of expression that says, “Of course, dear.
He’s family.” And I believed her. I told her quietly, “Take care of our baby.” She replied, “Always.”
The next morning, as I was sipping coffee, my phone buzzed. Timmy’s name lit up the screen.
His voice was small and trembling. “Mom… can you come get me?”
My heart stopped. “What happened, sweetheart?”
“Grandma… she doesn’t like me.
She says I don’t belong here.” His voice cracked. Then the line went dead. I tried calling back.
No answer. I called Betsy. She picked up after a few rings, her voice falsely cheerful.
“Oh, Alicia! He’s just adjusting. You know how sensitive children can be.”
“He was crying, Betsy.
Put him on the phone.”
“I’m afraid he’s busy with the other children at the pool.”
“Then go get him.”
“You’re overreacting, dear,” she said lightly — and hung up. Dave didn’t hesitate. “We’re going now.” The two-hour drive felt like forever.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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