“Mike, wait! There’s nothing in there but old construction scraps. I keep it locked so the neighborhood kids don’t get in.”
Mike ignored her. He reached the shed and saw a heavy, brand-new padlock on the door.
“Why is there a high-security lock on a shed full of scrap, Susan?” he asked, his back to her. She stammered, “I… I told you. For safety. Liability.” “Give me the key.” “I don’t have it on me. I think I lost it,” she said quickly. “Mike, come back inside. You’re tired. Take a shower, relax.” She tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away as if her touch burned.
The lie was so thin, so pathetic, that he felt a red mist behind his eyes. He looked at the small, grimy window of the shed, and for a second, he thought he saw something move in the shadows.
Mike didn’t say another word. He looked around and grabbed a heavy decorative stone from the new landscaping. Susan started screaming. “Mike, stop! You’re going to break it! Get away from there!”
“Back off,” he growled. The look in his eyes stopped her cold. She had never seen him like this—this was the man who had survived two tours of combat. He was a stranger to her now, and a dangerous one.
He slammed the stone against the padlock. On the second hit, the hasp gave way with a loud crack. The lock fell into the grass.
Mike threw the stone aside and yanked the door open. The smell hit him first—a sickening mix of unwashed skin, old food, and the sharp tang of a bucket that hadn’t been emptied. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw something that turned his blood to ice. In the corner, sitting on a pile of old moving blankets, was a tiny, frail woman.
Her hair was matted, her face was thin and dirty, and her eyes were wide with terror. She was wearing a tattered old coat, her legs wrapped in a moth-eaten quilt. Next to her on the dirt floor was a plastic dog bowl with some murky water and a plate of stale bread crusts.
It was his mother. Martha. She stared at him, but there was no recognition in her eyes—only the blank stare of someone who had been broken. She was shivering violently.
Mike’s knees went weak. “Mom?” he whispered, his voice breaking. The old woman flinched and tried to crawl further into the corner, whimpering. She was muttering nonsense under her breath.
Susan stood behind him, her face white as a sheet. “It’s not what it looks like! She’s lost her mind, Mike! She insisted on staying out here, she wouldn’t come inside. She was getting violent!” Susan’s excuses were pathetic. Mike slowly turned his head to look at his wife.
There was no love left. No pity. Just a cold, hollow void. He looked back at his mother.
He dropped to his knees in the filth. “Mom, it’s me. It’s Mike. I’m home.”
He reached out a hand, and she flinched, but then she stopped. She squinted at him, and for a fleeting second, a spark of memory returned to her eyes.
“Mikey?” she rasped through cracked lips. “Is it really you?” “Yeah, Mom. It’s me,” he said, a single hot tear tracking down his cheek.
He took her hand. It felt like parchment. He noticed dark, bruised rings around her wrists and ankles—marks from being tied down. He looked up at Susan with such pure, concentrated hatred that she backed away until she hit the stone wall.
Mike lifted his mother gently. She weighed almost nothing. He carried her out of that hole and into the sunlight. He carried her toward the house—the house she had lived in for forty years, now turned into a stranger’s palace. He walked past Susan without a word.
He went upstairs, kicked open the door to the “walk-in closet,” then turned and went into the master bedroom. He laid his mother down on the white silk duvet, staining it with the grime of the shed. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry, honey. I couldn’t keep the house nice,” she whispered. “I’m the one who’s sorry, Mom,” he said, stroking her hair. “I should have been here.”
He walked out and closed the door. Susan was standing at the bottom of the stairs, trembling. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Mike descended the stairs slowly, each step echoing in the silent house. He stopped inches from her face.
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