I followed my 13-year-old son through town like some undercover detective, heart hammering in my chest, hoping—praying—that the cash I found in his piggy bank wasn’t what I feared.
Jake wasn’t the type to cause trouble. He was always gentle, polite to a fault, and a little old for his age. But $3,250 hidden in a ceramic dog? That didn’t scream “innocent after-school hobby.”
I kept my distance as he passed the comic shop, the skate park, even the ice cream stand he used to beg me for cones from. Then, to my surprise, he ducked into a modest-looking café. A bell jingled as he pushed open the door.
I parked and hurried across the street, peeking through the window.
Inside, Jake greeted a man in a wheelchair. Older, mid-50s maybe, with tired eyes and an oxygen tube. Jake set his backpack down and handed the man something — a drawing.
Wait… no. A stack of drawings.
They talked for a while. The man laughed, wiped his eyes. Jake smiled.
I stepped back from the window, overwhelmed. Whatever this was… it wasn’t criminal. It was something else entirely.
That night, I couldn’t hold it in.
“Jake,” I said as I tucked him in. “I found the money in Waffles.”
He stiffened.
“I followed you today.”
He looked down, embarrassed.
“I thought… maybe you were in trouble,” I continued. “But I saw the café. The man.”
Jake took a deep breath.
“His name’s Mr. Langston,” he said. “He used to be my art teacher in elementary. He had a stroke last year and can’t work anymore. I sell sketches online — anime stuff, portraits. I’ve been saving it to help pay for his wheelchair van. He doesn’t know.”
I was speechless. My chest tightened in that painful, beautiful way when pride and guilt hit at the same time.
“I wanted to surprise him,” Jake said. “He was the first adult who told me I was really good.”
Tears welled in my eyes.
“You already have,” I whispered.