When my wife told me that our 3-year-old son was buried, my world crumbled. She looked devastated, her eyes swollen from tears, and her voice cracked as she spoke the words. She said he’d been involved in an accident, that he’d passed away unexpectedly, and they’d buried him in a local cemetery. I was numb, in disbelief. How could this happen? My beautiful boy, gone.
In the days that followed, I struggled to process her words. I was heartbroken, lost in a fog of grief, but something didn’t sit right. There were inconsistencies in her story, details that didn’t add up. I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was off. I reached out to the hospital, hoping to get some clarity on the situation, but when I asked for information, I hit a dead end. They told me there was no record of our son being admitted.
The following day, I made the decision to visit the cemetery. I needed to see it for myself, to understand what had happened. But when I arrived at the graveyard, my stomach turned. There was no sign of my son’s burial. I asked the groundskeeper, but he didn’t remember anyone coming through recently with a child’s burial. My heart began to race. My mind screamed at me: “What is going on?”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer and confronted my wife. That’s when the truth came crashing down—she hadn’t buried him. She had made it all up. The shock of what she had done to me, to our family, left me in disbelief. The lies, the manipulation, it was all too much to process. What had she done to our son, and why? The nightmare had only just begun.
