After the divorce, my 14-year-old son asked to live with his dad. It felt like a punch to the gut, but I swallowed the pain. He needed stability, he said. He needed a fresh start. I didn’t fight it—I just wanted him to be happy and healthy. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a rejection of me, just a phase, a need to connect with his male parent. I still stayed close, called every day, and tried to be there for him as much as I could. Every other weekend, I’d take him, trying to squeeze a lifetime of mothering into 48 hours. But then the calls started coming in. First, a polite inquiry from his math teacher about missed homework. Then, an email from the school counselor expressing concern about his sudden withdrawal from extracurriculars. His grades were slipping. My heart started to ache, a dull, persistent throb. A week later, a call from the principal herself. “He’s not looking well,” she said, her voice laced with worry. “He seems incredibly tired, almost… gaunt.” That was it. I didn’t hesitate. The ext day, I called in sick and went straight to his school.
He got in my car, and my heart sank. He looked exhausted, yes, but it was more than that. His eyes were sunken, dark circles painted beneath them. His usually vibrant skin was pale, almost translucent. He was a ghost of the energetic boy I’d sent off just months ago. What had happened to him? What was his father doing? I tried to ask, gently at first. “Honey, what’s going on? You look so tired.” He just shrugged, looking out the window. “Nothing, Mom. Just… school.” The lie was as transparent as his skin.
I knew I couldn’t trust his dad to tell me the truth. He’d always been evasive, good at deflection. That evening, I drove by my ex-husband’s house. The lights were off, the curtains drawn, even though it was only 7 PM. Something felt wrong. Deeply wrong. My maternal instinct was screaming. I parked down the street, waiting. Hours passed. Nothing. I went home, sleep a distant memory, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
The next morning, I drove over again, unannounced. I knocked. No answer. I tried the spare key I still had from better days. It turned in the lock. The house was a mess. Empty take-out containers, clothes strewn everywhere. A faint, cloying smell hung in the air, sweet and acrid at the same time. What was that smell? I walked through the living room, heart pounding against my ribs, calling his name. No response. Then I saw it. Tucked beneath the couch cushion, a small, clear baggie. My blood ran cold.
I ran upstairs, my voice growing hoarse. “ARE YOU HERE?!” I burst into my son’s room. He wasn’t there. But on his nightstand, amidst his textbooks, was a small pile of cash. And next to it, a burner phone. It lit up with a message: “Dad needs more for his stash. Meet at the usual.”
My breath hitched. My world tilted. It wasn’t just neglect. It wasn’t just poor grades or exhaustion. My ex-husband wasn’t just doing drugs; he was using our son. Using him to make money. Using him to deal. My beautiful, innocent 14-year-old boy, selling drugs for his own father. He wasn’t tired from school. He was tired from running the streets, making drops, keeping secrets. He was protecting the man who was destroying him. My ex-husband didn’t just break my heart; he shattered our son’s future. ALL OF IT. I wanted to scream. I wanted to burn that house to the ground. But all I could do was pick up that burner phone, my hands shaking, and dial the police.
