My Son Thought I Didn’t Notice When He Hid An Envelope Under My Truck Dashboard. I Moved It To…
A Hard Realization
Every word was a lie. I could see it in the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The way his story kept changing small details.
When I asked how much he owed, he said 20,000, then 30. Then he said he wasn’t sure exactly.
“Thomas,”
I said quietly.
“You used me. You put me at risk. If the police had pulled you over, that’s my truck, my name on the registration. I could have lost everything.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“And Lily? What about your daughter? What happens to her when this catches up to you?”
He started crying then. My son, nearly 40 years old, sobbing at my kitchen table like he was seven again and had broken something valuable.,
“I’ve messed everything up,”
he said.
“I don’t know how to fix it.”
I wanted to comfort him. Every instinct I had as a father wanted to pull him into a hug and tell him we’d figure it out together. But something stopped me.
Maybe it was the memory of finding that phone, of reading those messages that talked about my truck like it was just another piece of equipment. Maybe it was the thought of little Lily growing up with a father in prison, or worse.
“Thomas, you need to stop today. Right now. Whatever you’re involved in, you walk away.”
“I can’t, Dad. These aren’t the kind of people you just walk away from.”
“Then we go to the police. We tell them everything. We cooperate. We get you protection.”
His face changed. The fear vanished, replaced by something cold.
“I’m not going to prison.”
“Son, if you keep doing this, prison is the best case scenario.”
He stood up.
“I need to go.”
“Thomas, wait.”
But he was already out the door. I sat there listening to his car start, listening to him drive away.,
And I knew with absolute certainty that my son wasn’t going to stop. He was going to keep using my truck, keep putting me at risk. Keep dragging our family deeper into whatever darkness he’d found.
The Surveillance
That night, I made a decision. If Thomas wouldn’t protect himself, I’d have to protect him another way. And I’d have to protect myself, protect Lily, protect what was left of our family.
The next time he asked to borrow my truck, I said yes. It was a Thursday morning. Thomas showed up at 7:00, said he needed it for a few hours to pick up some building materials.
I handed him the keys and watched him drive away. As soon as he turned the corner, I got in Catherine’s old Corolla and followed him.
He didn’t go to any hardware store. He drove straight to a Tim Horton’s parking lot off the QEW, where he sat for 15 minutes before a black Mercedes pulled up beside him.
A man got out, looked around, then got into my truck with Thomas. They talked for maybe 5 minutes. When the man left, he was carrying a large shopping bag.,
Thomas drove to two more locations that morning. Same pattern each time. Meet someone, talk briefly, exchange bags.
By the time he returned my truck at noon, I’d taken photos of every location, every person, every license plate.
“Thanks, Dad,”
he said, handing back the keys.
“Really appreciate it.”
“No problem, son.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat at my computer looking at the photos, trying to decide what to do.
I could go to the police, turn over everything I had. But Thomas was right about one thing. The people he was involved with wouldn’t take kindly to that.
Even if Thomas went into witness protection, what about Vanessa? What about Lily?
I thought about Catherine. What would she do? She was always smarter than me about these things, always knew the right thing to say, the right way to handle difficult situations.
I imagined her sitting across from me at the kitchen table. That look on her face when she was thinking hard about something.
“You have to stop him,”
I could almost hear her say.
“But you have to do it smart.”,
The plan came to me slowly, piece by piece. It wasn’t perfect. It was risky, but it was the only way I could see to protect Thomas from himself while keeping the rest of us safe.
