My father had been acting strangely for months—coming home later than usual, disappearing into his office for hours, and carrying a tension that seemed to follow him everywhere. Whenever she asked if something was wrong, he would force a smile and insist everything was fine.
But it wasn’t.
She could feel it.
After nearly thirty years of marriage, she knew the difference between stress and fear.
And lately, fear seemed to be living inside our house.
So that afternoon, while searching for a folder she thought might contain financial documents, she opened a drawer she had never opened before.
The moment she looked inside, something felt wrong.
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