Two years had passed since my daughter Monica and her husband Stephen perished in an accident. Or so I thought. The grief still lingered, but life went on for my grandchildren, Andy and Peter, and me.
One day, while enjoying the beach with the kids, they suddenly pointed to a nearby café, exclaiming, “Grandma, look! That’s our mom and dad!” My heart skipped a beat as I saw a couple resembling Monica and Stephen.
Earlier, I had received an anonymous letter claiming they were still alive. I thought it was a cruel prank, but a mysterious transaction on Monica’s old credit card sparked curiosity.
Investigating further, I discovered a virtual card connected to the account, activated a week before their supposed death. A chill ran down my spine.
At the beach, I trailed the couple, overhearing their conversation. The woman mentioned missing “the boys.” My anger and sorrow boiled over.
I called 911 and approached the cottage where they were staying. When the door opened, Monica stood before me, shocked.
The police arrived, and Monica and Stephen, now going by Emily and Anthony, revealed their story.
They had staged the accident to escape loan sharks and debts, believing their absence would provide a better life for their children.
As I listened, my heart ached, but anger simmered beneath. There had to be a better way.
The police separated Monica and Stephen, leaving me to grapple with the consequences. How could I explain this to Andy and Peter?
Now, I wonder if contacting the police was the right decision. Should I have protected my daughter’s secrets?
The anonymous letter remains a mystery, but its words echo: “They’re not really gone.” Indeed, they were alive, but at what cost?
Would you have handled things differently in my shoes?
