Two months ago, my wife drove to Chattanooga to help our son and his wife settle into their new house.
She planned to stay for two weeks. After four days, she stopped answering me.
By the fifth morning, I got in my truck and drove there myself. My name is Robert Hale.
My wife, Linda, and I had been married for forty-one years. Our son, Jason, had recently moved into a new house with his wife, Megan.
Before Linda left, I already had a bad feeling. Jason had spent months asking casual questions about our retirement money.
About our house. About whether we still had a home equity line. Linda always defended him.
“He’s stressed.” “Moving does that.” For the first four days, she texted every morning.
Good morning. Miss you. Jason still can’t hang curtains. Megan still can’t find half the kitchen boxes.
Then nothing. I called Jason. “She’s fine, Dad.” “She’s just worn out.”
“We’ve been working her hard.” The little laugh afterward made my stomach tighten.
So I drove to Chattanooga. The moment I parked outside Jason’s house, an elderly neighbor hurried across the street.
“You related to the woman in that house?” “She’s my wife.” He pointed toward the upstairs windows.
“You need to call an ambulance right now before you go in there.” My hand went straight to my phone.
“What happened?” “Three days ago, I saw your wife sitting at the kitchen table.”
