The morning began with a scream: Scooter was missing. There was no sign of him anywhere. By noon, panic had spread through the house. But my greatest fear wasn’t just that he was gone—it was who he might have found.
In my home, mornings were rarely quiet. They were filled with the sound of hurried footsteps down the hallway, the constant pinging of Veronica’s phone as she updated her followers, and the unmistakable clatter of objects hitting the floor—courtesy of my cat, Bugsy, who seemed to have a personal vendetta against gravity.
But that day, the scream pierced the usual chaos.
“Mom! Dad!” Mia’s voice echoed through the house, thick with panic. “Scooter is gone!”
A sleepy murmur came from the bedroom. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Veronica appeared, squinting at Mia, her face half-lit by the blue glow of her phone.
“Where could he have gone? Mia, it’s too early for your spiritual visions.”
Mia’s nostrils flared in frustration.
“I went to his room to get some water. He always keeps extra bottles so he doesn’t have to go to the kitchen at night. But he’s not there!”
Greg stumbled forward, still half-asleep.
“He’s probably playing one of his detective games.”
“His notebook is still there. He never leaves it behind.”
That got my attention. Greg sensed the shift too, because, for the first time, he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned and walked straight to me.
I was exactly where they expected to find me—curled up in my favorite armchair, having my first coffee of the day. I’d been awake for hours, lost in my thoughts.
“I saw him last night,” I said, stirring my coffee calmly. “Running through the halls.”
I set my cup down on the table, fixing Greg with a steady gaze.
“The house is safe. He’s just hiding somewhere. He won’t resist the smell of pancakes.”
That was my mistake—assuming anything about Theo could be predictable. Morning passed. Pancakes were made, the coffee brewed, but still no Scooter.
By noon, the house was in chaos. Greg rummaged through cabinets like a man searching for lost treasure. Mia climbed to the attic twice, murmuring about “energetic imprints” and “astral planes.” Even Veronica put down her phone long enough to peek behind furniture, as if Theo had shrunk to the size of a dust mote.
I, however, took a different approach. I stepped outside, letting the fresh air clear my mind better than any cup of coffee. And then I saw it. A small opening in the fence. Almost imperceptible unless you knew where to look. The same gap I had never fixed. The one I left on purpose so Bugsy could wander freely into the neighbor’s yard and trample over their perfectly arranged flower beds.
I let out a long sigh. My worst suspicions were confirmed.
There were few things in the world I hated more than visiting Harold. He was the unbearable neighbor—always in his plaid shirts, making noise with his chainsaw, or spraying his garden with chemicals, poisoning the air near my precious rose bushes.
A silent war had simmered between us for years. And now, my grandson was deep in enemy territory.
There they were, on the porch. Scooter and Harold, drinking tea and eating pancakes. Scooter, with his mouth full, was listening to Harold with wide, fascinated eyes.
“… and that was my first insect collection,” Harold said, flipping through an old album. “I collected it when I was a Boy Scout.”
“That’s amazing!” Scooter swallowed a bite of pancake. “Do you still collect?”
“Of course, kid.” Harold smiled, taking a sip of tea. “But now, I collect memories.”
“Scooter!”
He flinched and turned his head quickly towards me.
“Grandma Vivi!”
“Home. Now.”
Harold chuckled.
“Oh, come on, Vivi. Why so much hostility? We were just having breakfast.”
“He should be having breakfast with his family, not with a…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “A complete stranger.”
Harold’s eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Stranger? Oh, Vivi. Don’t you think it’s time to tell them the truth? They have the right to know.”
Theo’s face lit up.
“What? Another mystery?”
“Theo, home. Right now.”
“Vivi, how long are you going to keep this secret?”
I stepped closer to him, my voice a hiss.
“Not. One. Word.”
Harold only smiled, sipping his tea with the calm of a man who knew too much.
I grabbed my grandson’s arm and marched him back home. I had always known this day would come, but not like this.
Inside, my daughters were already gathered. Dolly, usually the first to dive into drama, looked hesitant for the first time.
“Vivi, it’s been years. Maybe it’s time to lift this burden and tell the truth to your family.”
Margo, ever the calm one, simply poured herself more coffee and gave me a look over the rim of her cup.
“Yes, Mom. How exactly should we understand this?”
Greg narrowed his eyes, first at Harold and then at me.
“Yeah, I’d like an explanation too. Preferably before I need therapy.”
Scooter, notebook in hand, looked back and forth between Harold and me like a cat who’d just found an open can of tuna.
“Wait… Who is he, exactly?”
Harold leaned back, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and, as if discussing the weather, turned to Greg.
“I’m your father.”
Silence fell over the room. Mia, usually the most serene of us all, stared at me with wide eyes.
“My… what?”
Harold nodded.
“I came to have dinner with my grandkids. And my son.”
Veronica’s fork clattered onto her plate. I knew the moment of truth had arrived. My daughters, my son, my grandson… all looking at me, waiting for answers.
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and prepared myself to tell the story I had kept hidden for so many years.
Finally, the secret of the pancakes was about to be revealed.