I waited four hours for my six children to arrive for my sixtieth birthday. I’d prepared everyone’s favorite dishes, set seven places with my mother’s finest china, and carefully ironed the napkins. At four, I watched the driveway excitedly. At five, I sent a cheerful family message. By six, nobody had arrived or answered my calls. At nine, the food was cold, the candles were nearly gone, and I sat crying beside six empty chairs.

Then someone knocked firmly on my front door. A young police officer stood outside, holding a folded note in my son Grant’s handwriting. It said, “Mom, don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to him and get in the car.” My heart nearly stopped.
The police car smelled of disinfectant, and a metal barrier separated me from the officer. I asked where we were going, but he only promised that I’d have answers soon. Then my phone buzzed. Mark had sent a message: “Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.” After four hours of unanswered calls, those words made me furious. I demanded to know whether the officer knew Grant. He quietly admitted that he did. When I asked whether any of my children were hurt, he assured me they weren’t.

Still frightened, I watched familiar Fort Wayne streets pass outside the window. Eventually, we turned into the parking lot of Kingsland Community Center, where I’d spent countless Saturdays watching my children play sports. Several familiar vehicles were parked outside. I recognized Mark’s Honda, Sarah’s Corolla, Jason’s truck, Caleb’s Subaru, and Eliza’s Jeep. Something was terribly wrong.