For years, I’ve watched my only child drift further away – the monthly phone calls growing shorter, his visits becoming rare events. His father would be heartbr0ken if he saw how distant we’ve become. So when my 32-year-old son actually asked to celebrate his birthday at my home, I jumped at the chance to reconnect.

“I’ll stay at Mrs. Thompson’s next door,” I offered generously, wanting to give him space to enjoy his party. “Just clean up afterward, okay?”The scene that greeted me the next morning st0le my breath. My once- pristine home looked like it had survived a hurricane – shattered glass glittered across the floors, doors dangled from br0ken hinges, sm0ke still lingered from where they’d apparently tried to bu:rn my antique hutch. And there, on the kitchen counter amid the wreckage, sat a casually scribbled note: “Might need to do some light cleaning lol.”

As I sank to my knees amidst the destruction, hot tears carving paths down my cheeks, the phone rang. The caller ID displayed a number I hadn’t seen in years – my son’s former college roommate. “Mrs. Wilkins?” his voice crackled through the receiver. “You’re not going to believe what I just found in my attic…”

His name was Ben, and the last time I’d spoken with him was when my son, Martin, left for college. I wiped my tears and sat up straight. “What did you find, Ben?”

“I was cleaning out some boxes and stumbled on a stack of letters Martin wrote back then,” Ben explained. “He never sent them, but they’re full of things he never told anyone. I thought you might want to read them.”

That call was a lifeline thrown when I was drowning in despair. Later that day, Ben dropped off the letters. I carefully unfolded the yellowed pages and found a side of Martin I’d never known.

He wrote about feeling lost, misunderstood, even angry — not just at the world, but at himself. He was struggling with pressure, loneliness, and the weight of expectations. One letter, dated the summer after his first year, mentioned a “big mistake” that he feared would define him forever.

As I read on, I realized the reckless party at my house was his way of screaming for help — or maybe trying to erase the past that haunted him. I decided to call Martin that evening. His number was saved in my phone under “Birthday Boy,” a small, bittersweet reminder.