Ten years ago, my son, Silas, and his wife, Bree, brought their seven children to my house on a Saturday afternoon.
They told me they were going out of town for the evening and would pick the children up the next morning.
I remember teasing Silas as he carried the youngest inside.
“Seven children and you’re still finding time for a night out? You two must have more energy than I do.”
He laughed and kissed my cheek.
“Thanks, Mom. We owe you one.”
Bree hugged the children goodbye, reminding them to behave and listen to Grandma.
There was nothing unusual about that afternoon. The children watched cartoons, helped me make dinner, and eventually fell asleep wherever they could find a comfortable spot.
Just before midnight, someone knocked on my front door.
I opened it to find the county sheriff standing on my porch.
He took off his hat before speaking, and I knew something terrible had happened.
