Every Night, When I Went to Work, I Left My 5-Year-Old Son With My 73-Year-Old Father. A Few Weeks Later, My Boy Started Complaining of Severe Lower Back Pain. When I Asked What Had Happened, He Answered Fearfully, “Mommy, Grandpa Told Me Not to Tell You What We Do at Night.”

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There was a photograph of me as a little girl, about six years old. My mother was still young, and we were standing in front of a small white house.

I remembered that house very well.

It had belonged to my mother’s parents and had been sold many years earlier.

“Your mother always dreamed that one day that house would belong to our family again,” my father said.

“I know. But what does that have to do with Ben’s back pain?”

My father closed his eyes wearily.

“When I realized you were still working nights and barely getting enough sleep during the day, I decided to do something.”

He pointed to the wooden box beside his bed.

Inside were small toy cars, old watch parts, and several unfinished wooden decorations.

“I spent years repairing old watches. Recently, I decided to sell my collection and the tools
I no longer needed.”