My son hadn’t answered my calls for two weeks, so i went to his house quietly. When i got there, i noticed something moving under my grandson’s bed. When the police checked, what they discovered left us all stunned.

I still remember it perfectly. On that fateful day, I took the first bus heading to Chicago. During the three-hour ride, I didn’t say a single word, my eyes glued to the window as my heart tied itself in a knot. I told myself to calm down, but my hands trembled as I clutched the ticket. For two weeks, my son hadn’t answered his phone.

When I got off at the main terminal, it was already getting dark. I walked quickly toward the gated community where Daniel lived, down the same path I had walked dozens of times to visit him and Matthew, my grandson. But this time, every step felt heavy, like I was walking into a nightmare.

Standing in front of the familiar wooden door, I knocked. First gently, then with more and more force. “Daniel? Matthew?” I shouted, but my voice broke in the cold air. No one answered. I put my hand on the doorknob, just to try my luck. It turned. The door creaked open. It was unlocked.

My heart started pounding. Daniel never left the door unlocked. He was always so careful, especially when Matthew was home. I stepped inside, holding my breath.

The living room was a mess, as if there had been a fight. The sofa was pushed out of place. On the floor, a coffee mug was shattered, the white porcelain shards mixed with a dark, dried stain. In the kitchen, the water cooler jug was tipped on its side, and several empty, uncapped water bottles were rolling on the floor, as if someone had chugged them down in desperation. The smell of dampness and the oppressive silence of the house sent a chill down my spine.

I went upstairs, my heart beating so loud I could hear it pounding in my ears. Daniel’s office was empty. His bedroom, too. Finally, I reached Matthew’s room. “Matthew, where are you, sweetie?” I called out, my voice hoarse. No one answered.

Suddenly, a small noise came from under the bed—a scraping sound, like a plastic bottle rolling on the hardwood floor. I froze. There was something under the bed. I wanted to look, but my feet felt glued to the floor.

“Matthew?” I called out again. Only silence answered. Panic took over. I ran out of the house, my hands shaking so badly I had to dial the police number three times.

“My son is missing,” I practically screamed into the phone. “There’s a strange noise under my grandson’s bed.”

In less than ten minutes, the red and blue lights of a patrol car lit up the windows. I led the two police officers to Matthew’s room and, with a shaky finger, pointed at the bed. “Under there,” I whispered.

A young, tall officer knelt down. “Is anyone under there?” he asked, his voice firm.

Silence. Then, without another word, the two officers lifted the bed in one single motion.

And there I saw him. It was Matthew, my grandson, curled up underneath. He was so thin, his hair matted with sweat, his clothes filthy. He was clutching an empty water bottle, his eyes wide open, expressionless, as if he were looking into a world I couldn’t reach.

I stood there, paralyzed. I fell to my knees, wanting to hug him, but I didn’t dare touch him. “Matthew, my boy,” I whispered, tears welling up. He didn’t respond. He just stayed there, clinging to his bottle as if it were the last thing keeping him alive. I didn’t know what had happened, but I knew this nightmare was just beginning.

My name is Helen. I’m sixty-one years old. My story begins one morning in late October when I first realized Daniel was gone. For two eternal weeks, I lived with an anxiety that had no answers. I called him at dawn, late at night, leaving voicemails filled with a mother’s trembling fear. I called his friends, his co-workers. No one had seen him.

By the fifth day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called his landline, hoping to hear his voice, or at least Matthew’s, that eight-year-old boy who never stopped telling me about school. But the phone just rang in an empty house. I messaged Matthew: Sweetie, where are you? Call Grandma. The message sent, but the read receipt never appeared. My heart sank.

On the tenth day, I called the neighbors. An elderly woman who lived across the street told me that on the night of the big storm last week, she saw a light in Daniel’s house suddenly turn on, then off. Her words stabbed my heart like a knife. The night of the storm. A light that turns on and off. Something was very wrong.

Now, I sat in the dim light of a hospital room, my hands gripping the edge of the chair. Matthew lay in the bed, his small body almost lost in the white sheets. A police officer had carried him from that cold house, and I, like a soulless shadow, had run after them.

The patrol car had sped through the dark city streets. I sat next to Matthew, gently patting his back. “Grandma’s here,” I whispered, but he remained like a living statue, his eyes wide, staring at nothing.

At the hospital, they rushed him into the emergency room. I stayed outside, my hands pressed against the glass, watching them move quickly around him. The doctors’ words were a series of blows: No external injuries. Severe malnutrition. Severe dehydration. Signs of psychological trauma.

Psychological trauma. My grandson, that boy who always smiled like the morning sun, was now so thin, like a dry leaf. Later, the doctor let me in. Matthew was on an IV, a thin tube connected to his skinny arm. His eyes were still open, but they weren’t looking at me; they were fixed on a distant place I couldn’t reach.

That night, I sat by his bed, watching him tremble in his sleep. He clutched the empty water bottle tightly, even as he slept, as if afraid someone would take it from him. Sweat ran down his forehead, soaking the pillow. The doctor, a middle-aged woman with a kind look, put her hand on my shoulder. “Ma’am, he needs time. He went through a huge shock. Be patient.”

How could I be patient when Daniel was still missing, when Matthew was a shadow of his former self?

For two days, I didn’t move from his bedside. He had nightmares. Sometimes he would sit up suddenly, his mouth open as if trying to scream, but no sound came out. On the morning of the third day, I was gently wiping his face, telling him an old story about his dad. “Your dad was so silly, Matthew,” I said softly. “But he loved you more than anything in the world.”

He didn’t respond, but I saw his little fingers squeeze the teddy bear a nurse had given him. Just then, my phone vibrated. The police precinct. My heart pounded.

The detective’s voice on the other end was grave. “Mrs. Helen, I need you to prepare yourself. We just used Luminol to re-examine Mr. Daniel’s house, and we found a very large amount of blood in the living room.”

My ears went numb. The washcloth in my hand fell to the floor. Blood, I repeated, my voice breaking.

“It’s very likely we’re dealing with a homicide,” the detective continued.

I was barely processing his words when Matthew tugged hard on my sleeve. I turned and saw his red, tear-filled eyes. And then, after so many days of silence, he burst into tears, a heartbreaking cry that shattered the calm of the hospital room.

“Dad… he’s dead!” he screamed, his voice weak but full of a pain that tore through my soul.

An hour later, a detective sat by Matthew’s bed. “Matthew,” he said in a soft, careful voice, “can you tell us and your grandma what happened?”

I felt Matthew tremble in my arms. I stroked his hair. “It’s okay, Matthew. Just tell us. Grandma is right here with you.”

After a few minutes, he nodded slightly. He began to speak, his voice almost a whisper.

“That night… it was raining really hard. I was playing with my Legos… and then the doorbell rang, many times.” He paused, squeezing his bear. “Dad was at the door… his face was very tense. He saw me and ran to me. He whispered, ‘Matthew, get under the bed quickly. Don’t come out until I call for you.’”

A chill ran down my spine. “I got under the bed, and Dad pulled down the comforter so no one could see me. Through a little gap, I saw my mom come in with a very tall man. That man’s face was very cold.”

I was frozen. Jessica. Matthew’s mom, Daniel’s ex-wife. She had left them years ago, a storm of gambling debts and broken promises in her wake. Daniel had fought for custody, had won, had built a new, quiet life.

Matthew’s voice trembled. “My mom looked around and asked, ‘Where is Matthew?’ Dad told her I went to your house for winter break. I knew he was lying.” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Then my mom started yelling at him. She was asking for money. She said something about a debt that Dad had to pay if he didn’t want trouble. But Dad shook his head. He told her she had gone too far.”

Matthew stopped, breathing heavily. I rubbed his back. “Then… Mom and the tall man started fighting with Dad. The other man pushed him. Dad stumbled back… and then he pushed him harder. Dad fell… and hit his head on the corner of the table. There was a loud thud… and red water started coming out.”

Matthew trembled uncontrollably, hiding his face in my chest. “I saw Dad lying there… not moving. I wanted to come out, I wanted to call him… but I was scared. So scared.”

I hugged him with all my strength, my own tears soaking his hair. The detective’s face was grim. “This statement is very important, Mrs. Helen,” he said. “We are going to investigate this as a possible homicide.”

That night, sitting in the darkness of the hospital room, I was haunted by memories. Daniel, young and full of hope, introducing me to Jessica. Back then, she was a good girl, warm and kind. Matthew’s birth had been a new light in our family. But then came the gambling, the debts. Daniel sold the car he loved to pay them off. I used my savings. But Jessica only changed for the worse, becoming irritable, cruel. Daniel finally divorced her, fighting for custody to protect his son. I thought the nightmare was over. But she had come back.

The next morning, the detective called. “Mrs. Helen, a neighbor’s security camera recorded a suspicious truck on the night of the storm.” On the screen, a blurry image of a dark truck. In the back, something long, covered with a tarp. The model matched one used by a local loan shark gang.

Jessica had been in deep. The detective found her last known address. The landlady was a sour-faced woman. “That Jessica,” she said with a dismissive voice. “She left about two weeks ago, in a real hurry. Even hired some guy to drive her away at night.”

Just as we were leaving, a man with a rough appearance and a scarred face appeared. “Is Jessica still here?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “I’m her loan shark. She owes me a lot of money. Swore she’d pay me back in two weeks.”

That night, a vague memory surfaced in my mind. Daniel, years ago, proudly showing me a life insurance policy. “Mom, I want to protect my family. If anything happens to me, Jessica and Matthew will have nothing to worry about.” Jessica was the sole beneficiary. He had never changed it.

I called the detective. The next day, they found the policy in Daniel’s study. The motive was clear. Jessica had become a monster, willing to take Daniel’s life for money.

Then came the call. An anonymous tip. An abandoned frozen goods warehouse on the outskirts of town. A place the loan shark gang used.

The next morning, I went with the police to the morgue. I walked as if in a dream. The cold room, the white sheet, the face of my son, pale and changed by death, but still my Daniel. I fell to my knees, only able to say two words: “My son.” The medical examiner confirmed it: a strong blow to the head, time of death estimated to be the night of the storm.

With the statement from the loan shark, the police quickly arrested the man who had been with Jessica that night. He confessed everything. They found Jessica in a small copy shop, trying to forge documents to flee the city.

The trial was a blur of pain. I sat in the front row, holding Matthew’s hand. The prosecutor presented the evidence, piece by damning piece: Matthew’s statement, the DNA from the truck, the life insurance policy. At first, Jessica was calm, but as the evidence mounted, she began to tremble. Suddenly, she jumped up and shouted, “I didn’t mean to kill him! I just wanted my money!”

Her accomplice, seeing his chance, immediately turned on her. “You were the one who planned everything! You told me to push him!”

After hours of deliberation, the judge delivered the verdict. Jessica was found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison without parole.

When the sentence was read, I broke down, hugging Matthew with all my strength. My tears were not only for the pain of losing Daniel, but for the relief that justice had finally been served. “It’s over, my boy,” I whispered. “Your dad can finally rest in peace.”

I closed up Daniel’s house for good and took Matthew to live with me. Every night, I sit by his side and tell him stories about the father who loved him so much. I look up at the sky and whisper, “My son, I promise you, I will raise and protect Matthew for you.” Justice has been served. And though the pain of losing my son will never go away, I still have him. And I will spend the rest of my life taking care of him, just as Daniel did.