When my mom stopped answering her phone, I panicked. Hours later, I was hiding behind a bush, watching a stranger walk into her house with a knife and a rope.
I hadn’t heard from my Mom in three days. That was… unheard of.
Usually, she’d call at least twice a day. But finally — silence. No calls, no memes, not even a passive-aggressive recipe link.
I told myself not to panic. I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop. Emails. Zooms. Another product launch.
I never had time. For anything. Yet somehow, I’d convinced myself I could be everything, all at once. I never hired a nanny. The kids practically raised themselves over the last year, making their breakfasts and packing their lunches.
And when I really couldn’t stretch myself thin enough?
Mom stepped in.
She was the emergency parachute I never admitted I needed. My sweet, cherry-pie-making, milk-pouring, crisis-handling parachute.
“When do you ever actually live, darling?” she used to say, brushing flour from her apron. “You’re always running somewhere.”
“Oh, Mom. I have to make sure my kids have a future. And me? I need to afford retirement eventually.”
“You ever thought of doing it with someone? Maybe letting a husband carry half the weight?”
“Nope. A husband will just make me weaker, then leave when I’m tired. I’ve seen that show. Didn’t love the ending.”
“Maybe, you just watched it with the wrong co-star.”
“Oh, Mom.”
That phrase… Oh, Mom — carried weight.
Sometimes it meant “I’m tired.” Other times, “I’m angry at how my life turned out.”
And sometimes, it simply meant,
“I love you and hate that you’re always right.”
She always knew which one I meant.
That week, I was drowning at work and had a looming business trip to Chicago. I needed Mom’s help again — just for the weekend. To take the kids.
I asked my assistant to call her that morning. By 5 PM, she still hadn’t reached her.
“Suzy,” I barked, “have you ever managed to follow through on a single task?”
She gave me a look, sniffled, and disappeared toward the restroom. I knew exactly what “fixing her makeup” meant. Poor girl.
I tried myself — calls, texts, voice messages. Nothing. Just that cold, robotic voicemail.
“The number you are trying to reach is unavailable…”
By evening, my nerves were a shredded ribbon. I had less than 24 hours before my flight. And no mother.
That’s when I snapped. I rummaged through my old planner, found her address scribbled in cursive, and punched it into my car’s GPS.
She was supposed to be at that little house by the woods. The one she bought a year before, falling in love with “the smell of pinecones.”
But something was wrong, and I wasn’t going to ignore it.
I hit the road as twilight crawled across the sky, the forest closing in around me like a warning. My heart thudded with every mile.
I called her landline. A man answered.
“Hello?” I said, cautiously.
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Sorenson.”
“Nobody here by that name.”
My throat tightened.
“I think you’re mistaken. She owns that house. I…”
“I bought this place a year ago. No idea who that is.”
He sounded… inconvenienced.
“Bye.”
Click.
A year ago?
That couldn’t be. That house was hers. I remembered her posts about it. The housewarming pie. The pink mailbox.
I saw her often this year — just not THERE. She always came to me. She never invited me over. I never questioned it.
Oh God. Where is she actually living?
And if she doesn’t live there… then who the hell does?
I stared out the windshield as the trees thickened and the sun disappeared.
Something wasn’t right.
***
I parked the car a block away — half because my car was stalled, and half because my heart was already galloping.
The house peeked out from behind a line of towering pines, quiet and still. The wind barely moved the branches.
And then I saw him.
A tall man, probably in his forties, was hauling logs across the yard. He wore a red flannel shirt, jeans smeared with dirt, and rubber boots.
He moved with calm, stacking wood with mechanical rhythm. Not once did he look up. Not once did he smile.
I crouched behind a cluster of ferns and blinked hard.
This couldn’t be happening. Yes, I’m a grown woman. Yes, I am hiding like a raccoon behind foliage. No regrets.
I peeked again. And then… the wind shifted. And I saw it.
The flamingo!
Mom’s pink flamingo watering can. Sitting next to a cracked terracotta pot on the porch.
And then I saw it — hanging from the side of the shed, swaying gently like a grotesque charm: her old, battered tin chicken.
The ridiculous, rusty thing we bought at a flea market, “ironically,” and which she later defended with her life.
“It scares off raccoons,” Mom said. “And men who don’t know how to use a washing machine.”
I used to roll my eyes. At that moment, I wanted to hug that stupid chicken.
Because it meant one thing — Mom had been here.
So why is a stranger here?
I crouched lower, heart pounding like a drumline in a horror soundtrack. My thoughts started racing.
Maybe.. He’s keeping her here.
Is she in the shed? Tied up in the basement?
I grabbed my phone from my coat pocket with trembling fingers. No signal. I tilted it toward the sky. Nothing. Held it higher. Nothing.
“Come on. Come on. One bar. That’s all I need. I’ll take a dot. I’ll take half a dot.”
Nothing.
“Killed by trees,” I muttered. “What a poetic obituary.”
I debated running back to the car. But something stopped me.
The stranger was holding a rope. Thick, coiled. And then — a knife. Long. Sharp. Purposeful.
Not a kitchen knife. Not a butter knife.
A “dig-a-hole-in-the-woods” knife.
I froze. The man turned and walked toward the house, disappearing inside.
My legs felt like jelly. My skin prickled.
And then… I heard a scream. High-pitched. Female. Muffled. But real.
My brain short-circuited. Logic left the building.
I did what any emotionally exhausted, overly caffeinated, half-crazy working mom would do when faced with mortal danger. I sprinted straight at it.
Up the creaky porch steps — each one groaning like it knew I was making a mistake — I dodged a suspicious flowerpot, flung my arm toward the doorknob, and gently pushed. It creaked open.
The smell hit me first — woodsmoke, pine, something buttery and… meaty?
It was disturbingly cozy. I slipped inside. The hallway was dim. Shadows stretched long across the floor.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and nearly screamed.
“Get it together,” I hissed to myself. “You’re here to save her. Focus.”
I tiptoed forward. Somewhere upstairs, the floorboards moaned. Then a faint hum. A dragging sound.
I inched past the kitchen. A kettle whistled gently. Then…
“HEY!”
A hand grabbed my arm — huge, warm, iron-tight.
I screamed. The stranger screamed. We both screamed.
Then everything went black.
Apparently, my bravery had an expiration date.
***
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a ceiling fan slowly turning above me. The second was my boots. Off. On a doormat. Aligned.
Oh no. Either I fainted or was kidnapped by someone with excellent manners.
Then I smelled it.
Meat. Butter. Something smoky. Like my mother’s “special occasion” Sunday steak — but with a faint undertone of panic.
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The man was standing a few feet away, holding a dish towel and looking thoroughly… confused.
“Hi,” he said cautiously. “You, uh… passed out.”
“I don’t faint,” I replied instinctively.
“You screamed first.”
“You grabbed me!”
“You broke into my house!”
Touché.
I scrambled to my feet, checking behind me. No chains. No locked doors. Just a rustic kitchen with a tile backsplash, a sturdy oak table, and… a ribeye resting by the potatoes.
“Where’s my mother?” I demanded.
His brows shot up. “You’re what?”
“My mother! She owns this house!”
He tilted his head.
“Lady, I bought this house a year ago.”
I pointed at the watering can.
“That’s hers.”
“The previous owner left it. Said it was cursed, actually.”
“The chicken?”
“Also hers. I kept it because… well, it kinda grew on me.”
He motioned toward the stove, where potatoes sizzled in a pan.
“I heard a scream,” I snapped.
He nodded, turned, and picked up a remote.
Click.
On the wall-mounted TV, a woman in a hospital bed was weeping dramatically as a man with an eyepatch shouted,
“She was my twin AND my wife!”
Soap opera. Of course. The scream had come from the TV.
The kitchen smelled like grilled garlic. I relaxed a bit.
There were two glasses on the counter. A chilled lemonade was poured in one. The other sat empty. An invitation, I realized.
“Oh,” I croaked. “You’re… alone?”
He spread his arms.
“Just me and my emotional attachment to fictional drama.”
“So you’re not a murderer?”
“Not unless you count what I did to that sirloin last week.”
My brain rebooted like a 2003 laptop. Slowly.
“How did you even get this place?”
“A nice older lady sold it to me. Said she didn’t need all this space anymore. Wanted to be closer to her grandkids. Even gave me a pie.”
A pie…
At that moment, my phone rang.
“Mom?!”
“Oh, hi, sweetheart!” came her cheerful voice. “You won’t believe the week I’ve had. My phone died again — completely useless! I even missed two of my wine club nights. Tragic.”
“Are you okay? I was looking for you in the forest house.”
“Oh no, darling. I haven’t lived there in nearly a year.”
“I’m sorry, what?!”
“I moved, love. To be closer to you and the kids. Just a few blocks from your place, actually.”
“You moved? And never told me?!”
“Well… I thought I did. Or meant to. But you’ve been so busy. Always traveling, working, rushing around. You never came to visit, so I just figured you knew.”
I stood there in Gregor’s kitchen, mouth open, soul levitating.
“You mean… You haven’t lived here this whole time? I thought you were in danger. I thought you were dead! I broke into a stranger’s house!”
“Oh, you met Gregor! Isn’t he lovely? Did you try his steak?”
“I passed out before dinner, Mom.”
“Oh dear.”
After Mom assured me, once again, that she was very much alive and not being held hostage, I did what any modern woman would do — I asked if she could take the kids for the week.
А few minutes after, I finished the conversation with Mom and turned to Gregor.
“Mom says hi.”
I sank onto a kitchen stool.
“So… I nearly got arrested, traumatized myself, and accused a man of murder. And all this time, my mom lived fifteen minutes from me with perfect cell service.”
“Ten, if there’s no traffic,” Gregor grinned. “Would you… Like to stay for dinner? I make a mean grilled corn.”
I looked at him. At the steak. And I laughed. Loudly. Deeply. For the first time in months.
“I’ll stay. But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Drive me back home after. I have an early flight tomorrow. And my car… it stalled in the woods.”
“Scout’s honor.”
Then Gregor added with a crooked smile, “Your mom did warn me you might show up uninvited.”
“She what?”
“She said — and I quote — ‘My daughter doesn’t know how to rest. But she does know how to panic. So if she bursts in screaming, just offer her a drink and let her nap it off.”
I gaped.
“She planned this?”
“Apparently, this is… in her style?”
I sighed, smiling despite myself.
“Oh, Mom. You ridiculous, brilliant puppet master.”
And that night, over ribeye and grilled potatoes with Gregory, I realized something.
I’d been running so fast, chasing deadlines — believing that I was doing it all for my family, when really… I’d barely been with them.
Mom was right. In a whole year, I hadn’t visited her. Not once. She had moved just blocks away, and I hadn’t even noticed.
I looked at Gregor — kind, funny, entirely not a murderer — and realized how much I’d missed by being “too busy.”
I’d missed moments. Meals. Mom’s new life.
Work could wait. A missed email wouldn’t ruin the world.
Mom was right. In a whole year, I hadn’t visited her. Not once. She had moved just blocks away, and I hadn’t even noticed.
I looked at Gregor — kind, funny, entirely not a murderer — and realized how much I’d missed by being “too busy.”
I’d missed moments. Meals. Mom’s new life.
Work could wait. A missed email wouldn’t ruin the world.
“You’re invited too, by the way. She’ll expect it.”
Sometimes it takes a missing mother, a terrifying misunderstanding, and a man with a rope… to remind you what really matters.
Family. Time. Showing up. Before someone else has to break into a house just to find you.
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