My Son Didn’t Answer The Phone For Two Weeks. So I Decided To Go To His House Quietly. But When I Arrived, Something Moved Under My Grandson’s Bed. When The Officer Lifted The Bed, What We Found Left Us All SPEECHLESS. BECAUSE…

It’s just that work has been a bit heavy. I didn’t realize how heavy it was. I didn’t ask more questions.

Now I blamed myself. If I had paid more attention, if I had called sooner, would things be different? Two days passed, and I didn’t move from Matthew’s bedside, as if taking my eyes off him for a second would make him disappear.

Matthew was still there—small and fragile—his thin hands hugging a teddy bear a nurse had given him. I tried to feed him some broth, spoonful by spoonful, bringing it to his mouth, hoping he would eat something. Eat, Matthew, sweetie, so you can get strong and go home with grandma, I whispered, my voice trembling.

But the boy barely swallowed a couple of spoonfuls, then clamped his mouth shut, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Every night was the same. Matthew had nightmares.

Sometimes he would sit up suddenly in bed, his mouth open as if trying to scream, but no sound came out. I would hold him, rock him, and sing him the lullaby I used to sing to Daniel when he was a baby. But Matthew would just tremble, sweat drenching his forehead.

I would wipe his brow, my hand shaking so much the washcloth would fall. I asked for a psychologist to come—a young woman with a very sweet voice. She sat next to Matthew, held his hand, and asked him gentle questions.

“Matthew, do you want to tell me something about your dad, or about anything you saw?”

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