The flight from Bangkok dragged on endlessly, but the hug at Riverside Airport made it all worthwhile. Mom smelled like rosemary oil and… worry, maybe. Driving through Millbrook, the streets seemed smaller, the houses tired, like time had pressed on them while I was away. She filled the quiet with chatter—book club, neighbors, the weather—anything to avoid the dark circles under her eyes.
When we pulled into the driveway, she squeezed my arm. “I made your favorite. Potato soup with—”
“Extra thyme,” I finished for her, smiling.
The smile vanished the moment we stepped inside. The kitchen was chaos—dishes stacked high, boxes crowded the windowsill, the faucet barely dripping.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked.
She avoided my gaze. “A few weeks.”
Crouching under the sink, I examined the pipes. They looked ancient. “Why didn’t you call someone?”
“I… forgot,” she whispered.
The next morning, I grabbed Dad’s old toolbox from the garage. Rust, oil, and childhood memories filled the air. I wedged myself under the sink, flashlight clenched between my teeth, ready to tackle the clog. That’s when Mom appeared, pale, gripping the counter.
“STOP! Don’t touch that! Please!”
“It’s just a clog,” I said. “I can fix it.”
“No!” she snapped. “Call a professional.”
For two weeks, we washed dishes in the bathtub. She flinched whenever I entered the kitchen. The house felt heavy, wrong.
One afternoon, while she was out shopping, I resolved to act. Loosening the U-bend, I felt something unexpected. Wrapped in plastic, waterproof, heavy—inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills and a cheap flip phone. At least thirty thousand dollars.
The front door slammed.
“Jeremy? I’m—”
Mom came around the corner, grocery bags scattering apples. Her face crumpled. “Oh God. Oh no.”
She sank into a chair. “Why did you have to find it?”
I held up the bundle. “What is this? Whose money? And the phone?”
She exhaled slowly. “I’ve been lying to you. You have a brother.”
