“Emma, have you been happy at the activity center lately?”
His eyes flickered for a moment before he gave me a bright smile.
“Yes! Everyone’s been really nice to me.”
“Oh, and we have a race today. I want to cheer for my best friend!”
Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I couldn’t say no.
I crouched down and held out my pinky.
“Then promise me this: after today, I’ll transfer you to a better activity center, okay?”
Emma hooked his little finger with mine without hesitation.
After breakfast, I personally dropped him off.
Only after confirming with the staff several times did I finally head home.
But I couldn’t settle down. Even during my nap I felt restless, my eyelid twitching nonstop.
During my afternoon video call with the client, the sense of dread became unbearable.
I got up during a break to pour myself some water using the matching mother-and-son water bottle set Emma and I shared.
But as I was pouring, my hand suddenly trembled.
Crash!
The cup shattered on the floor, shards slicing across my foot, blood welling up instantly.
Staring at the pieces scattered across the floor, my chest tightened.
An indescribable wave of panic flooded through me.
A mother knows. Something was wrong.
My hands shook as I grabbed my phone and opened the app linked to Emma’s heart monitor.
When the data loaded, my breath caught.
His heart rate was at 163 beats per minute—and climbing!
My mind went blank.
I snatched up my car keys and bolted for the door, dialing the teacher’s number as I ran.
No answer.
I tried the supervisor’s phone.
Powered off.
A cold fear drenched me from head to toe.
I floored the gas, blew through several red lights, and raced toward the private activity center on the outskirts of the city.
When I arrived, I searched every classroom and usual activity area.
No sign of Emma.
Finally, I spotted a security guard patrolling the grounds.
I rushed over, grabbed his arm, and blurted out:
“Sir, where did the kids and teachers go?
My son is sick—I got a call from the teacher!”
The guard, seeing how frantic I was, pointed me toward the gymnasium.
I thanked him and ran.
But when I reached the sports area, the gate was locked.
Two unfamiliar men stood guard, yellow caution tape strung up behind them.
“Sorry, ma’am. There’s a private closed training session going on. No one’s allowed inside.”
“Private training? I’m a parent! My son is in there! He has a heart condition—let me in or he could die!”
My voice was shaking as I tried to push past them.
One man shoved me back.
“Rules are rules. If you keep this up, don’t blame us for getting rough.”
A surge of fury overrode my fear.
I spotted a lower section of the fence nearby, scrambled up using some boxes as a foothold, and leapt over as the men shouted behind me.
I sprinted toward the sports field.
The closer I got, the louder the noise—cheering, barking, and faint sobs.
