The sun had barely risen when I stumbled upon it — a crumpled note at the bottom of my daughter’s backpack. I had been searching for her misplaced homework sheet, the one she swore she had finished the night before. Instead, my fingers brushed against the paper, its edges rough and worn. I unfolded it slowly, my eyes narrowing as I read the words scribbled in smudged pencil. “Meet me behind the gym after school,” it said, followed by initials I didn’t recognize.
My heart thudded in my chest, a heavy drumbeat of worry and confusion. I stood in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator a distant background noise. Was this a harmless note passed between friends, or something more?
“Mom, have you seen my history book?” my daughter called from the hallway, her voice tinged with the usual morning impatience.
“It’s on the table,” I replied, tucking the note back into the backpack with a swift motion.
I watched her as she entered the room, her hair still a mess from sleep. She moved with the careless grace of a twelve-year-old, unaware of the storm brewing in my mind. I wanted to ask her about the note, to press her for details, but the words stuck in my throat like glue.
“You okay, Mom?” she asked, glancing at me with a curious tilt of her head.
“Yeah, just thinking,” I said with a smile that felt too tight.
She shrugged, grabbing her breakfast and heading out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The morning air was crisp as I drove her to school, the note a constant presence in my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a turning point, a moment that would alter the easy rhythm of our lives.
By the time I arrived back at home, my resolve had solidified. I needed to know more.
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