Every Sunday after lunch, she took Mom for a slow walk around the block. Mom loved it—fresh air, a change of scenery, a chance to gossip about whose garden looked best.
Then something… shifted.
At first, it was tiny.
Mom started coming back from those Sunday walks looking a little off. Not upset, exactly, just tense. Her smile felt forced, like she was holding something back.
“How was the walk?” I’d ask.
“It was nice, honey,” she’d say.
Same words, same tone.
Every single week.
The first time, I believed her. By the fourth or fifth, my stomach started doing little backflips. My mother is many things, but she’s not a broken record.
Last Sunday, they came back, and I knew something was really wrong.
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