I came home to my mom’s place after a year abroad.
She was happy to see me, but the kitchen faucet barely worked-pipes were clogged.
I asked why she hadn’t called a plumber.
She said she forgot.
The next morning, I grabbed my tools to fix it, but she rushed in and tried to stop me.
No matter how much I asked her what the reason was, she didn’t really explain anything.
A week passed, then another one, and constantly washing dishes in the bathroom started to drive me crazy.
So when my mom went out shopping, I finally took the pipes apart—and was
absolutely shaken when I found and was absolutely shaken when I found a tightly wrapped bundle wedged deep inside the pipe.
At first, I thought it was just a clump of old rags or food scraps, but when I pulled it out, it was surprisingly heavy.
The outer layer was soaked and smelled faintly of rust and something… metallic.
I tore the fabric open, and my heart began to race—inside were several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, bound with rubber bands, and tucked between them were small, sealed packets of something powdery white.
I froze, staring at the kitchen floor where the bundle lay.
My brain struggled to catch up—this wasn’t just odd, it was dangerous.
My mom had deliberately kept me from touching these pipes.
She hadn’t “forgotten” to call a plumber—she was protecting… or hiding… something.
The sound of her key turning in the lock jolted me back.
I barely had time to shove the bundle into a grocery bag before she stepped inside.
She froze when she saw my tools scattered on the floor, her eyes darting to my hands and then to the sink.
“What… did you do?” she asked, her voice low, almost trembling.
I didn’t answer.
My hands gripped the bag tighter.
For the first time, I realized there was a whole side of my mother’s life I knew nothing about—and now, whether I wanted it or not, I was part of it.