When Caleb came home smiling with chocolates from my sister, I thought nothing of it—until his teacher called, asking why he’d missed school again. My stomach dropped. He looked fine, happy even. But if he wasn’t at school, where had he been? And why hadn’t Abby told me?

The next morning, I watched him eat breakfast in silence. Something felt off. When he refused my offer to drive him, saying, “Walking’s good exercise,” I nodded, but followed him. My heart pounded as I trailed behind. He didn’t go to school—he went to Abby’s. She greeted him with a warm hug like it was normal. Furious, I marched to the door. Her smile faded when she saw me.

“Why is my son skipping school while you help him hide it?” I snapped. Abby said Caleb needed a break, that I pushed him too hard. “He’s thirteen,” I argued, “not an adult.” Caleb appeared behind her, pale and quiet. I reached for him. “We’re going home,” I said, and he came without a word.

The next morning, the silence felt heavier. Then the doorbell rang. Abby stood there, eyes swollen. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m lonely. Spoiling Caleb made me feel needed.” Her voice cracked, and for the first time, I truly saw her pain.

Then Caleb stepped forward. “I asked to skip. School’s been hard. I didn’t know how to tell you.” His voice trembled. “Aunt Abby listened.” Tears filled my eyes as I hugged him. “You never have to hide from me.”

We’re still healing. Still learning. But we’re a family—and that’s enough.