Mom Invited Us for Sunday Dinner Every Week, but One Day She Texted ‘Don’t Come Over Today’ — I Went Anyway and Was Terrified When I Saw What Was Inside
My mother has always been the heart of our family, especially since Dad pa:ss:ed away three years ago.
His d3ath devastated all of us, but Mom felt the loss most deeply.
That’s why my brother Brian and I promised each other we’d never let her feel alone.
I made it a point to visit her every Tuesday after work. Since she only lived about eight minutes from my place, I could easily bring groceries or help out with anything she needed.
Brian took Fridays, showing up with his toolbox ready to fix anything from leaky faucets to broken cabinet doors.
Both of us stayed close enough that we could be at her house in moments if she ever called.
But Sundays—Sundays were sacred.
Every Sunday, Mom would cook dinner for the entire family. That meant my husband and our kids, plus Brian’s wife and their kids.
Eight of us would squeeze around the same old wooden kitchen table Brian and I had shared growing up, eating cereal before school for nearly two decades.
Mom had once traced her hand over the table’s scratched surface and told me,
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