After a whole year living far away, I finally came back home, dreaming about Mom’s warm hugs and her amazing cooking. But what hit me first wasn’t her potato soup—it was a clogged sink in the kitchen, and that was only the start of a mystery that would change everything I thought I knew.
The plane from Bangkok felt like it took forever. I was tired, my legs cramped from sitting so long, but nothing compared to the ache inside me when I saw Mom waiting for me at Riverside Airport. For the past twelve months, I had been busy making videos about street food and exploring temples, but no adventure could fill the empty space that missing home had left in my heart.
“Jeremy!” Mom shouted as I stepped off the plane. Before I could even reach the exit, she wrapped me in a hug so tight I felt like a kid again—just like when storms scared me and I’d sneak into her bed. Her familiar rosemary oil mixed with something new—a faint hint of worry.
“Hey, Mom!” I whispered, holding her close. “I missed you so much.”
The ride to our house in Millbrook felt strange. The streets seemed narrower, the houses looked older, and Mom chatted nonstop about neighbors and her book club. But no matter how much she talked, I could see the dark circles under her eyes, shadows even makeup couldn’t hide.
“I made your favorite,” she said when we pulled up in front of our house. “That potato soup with the—”
“Extra thyme!” I grinned, finishing her sentence. “You remembered!”
But when we stepped inside, my excitement vanished. The kitchen was a mess. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere—on the counters, stacked in boxes, even balanced on the windowsill like they might topple over any second.
“Oh my God, Mom! What happened here?” I asked, shocked.
Her cheeks flushed red. “The sink’s been broken for weeks. I’ve been washing dishes in the bathroom sink, dear.”
I turned the kitchen faucet, but only a weak trickle of water came out, like the sink was barely alive.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked, frowning.
She avoided my eyes. “Oh, a few weeks. Nothing serious.”
“A few weeks?” I crouched down to look under the sink. The pipes were old and crusty, like they hadn’t been touched since forever. “Why didn’t you call a plumber?”
“I… forgot,” she said quietly.
The next morning, I found Dad’s old toolbox in the garage. The tools felt cold and heavy in my hands, each one reminding me of Saturday mornings when Dad let me help fix things around the house. Dad had been gone for three years, but I could still feel his presence in every nail and wrench.
I got under the sink with a flashlight clenched between my teeth, trying to see what was wrong. Suddenly, Mom’s footsteps thundered into the kitchen.
“STOP! Don’t touch that! Please!” she shouted, her voice breaking.
I hit my head on the pipe as I scrambled out, surprised by her panic.
“What’s wrong, Mom? You scared me!” I said.
She stood frozen in the doorway, pale as a ghost, hands shaking so badly she had to grip the counter.
“You can’t fix this right now. I have to call someone first,” she said, almost whispering.
“Who? It’s just a clogged pipe,” I said, confused.
“No, Jeremy. Just leave it alone.”
I stared at her. In all my 26 years, I’d never seen her look this scared—not when Dad got sick, not even at his funeral.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked gently.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes kept flicking back to the cabinet under the sink, like it held a terrible secret.
“Nothing’s going on. I just want a professional to handle it,” she lied.
Two whole weeks passed. Every day, we washed dishes in the bathtub, like something out of an old story. Mom watched me closely every time I went near the kitchen, jumping at every little noise. She started checking the locks on the front door, back door, and windows multiple times before bed.
“Mom, you’re scaring me,” I told her one morning over coffee. “What happened while I was gone?”
She smiled weakly. “Nothing, sweetie. I’m just tired.”
But I didn’t believe her. The whole house felt wrong, like a heavy secret was hiding in the walls.
That afternoon, when Mom left for the store, I made up my mind. I was going to fix the sink myself—and find out what she was hiding.
I grabbed the wrench and started loosening the pipes. Years of dirt and mineral buildup flaked off like old paint. Then, my fingers touched something strange wrapped tight in plastic.
I pulled it out carefully. Inside was an old flip phone and thick rolls of hundred-dollar bills—thirty thousand dollars, stuffed inside our plumbing like a secret treasure.
“What the hell?” I whispered, stunned.
Suddenly, the front door slammed.
“Jeremy? I’m home!” Mom’s voice called out.
I scrambled to hide the money and phone, but it was too late. Mom caught me sitting on the kitchen floor, cash spread like confetti.
Her grocery bags slipped from her hands, green apples rolling across the floor.
“Oh God! What did you do? No, no, no!” She pressed her hands to her face, shaking. “Why did you have to find it?”
“Mom, whose money is this? And this phone?” I demanded.
She sank into a chair, her shoulders collapsing as if a great weight had broken her.
“I’ve been lying to you your whole life, Jeremy,” she said quietly.
My heart dropped. “About what?”
“You have a brother.”
My brain froze. “WHAT??”
“I had a baby when I was seventeen, before I met your father,” she sobbed. “His name is Gerard.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Where is he?”
“I gave him up for adoption when he was five. I was so scared and young. His father disappeared as soon as he knew I was pregnant. I didn’t know how to raise a child on my own.”
“You never told Dad?”
She shook her head. “I was ashamed. Years passed, and it was easier to pretend he never existed. Until…”
“Until what?”
“Gerard found me six months ago. We did a DNA test to be sure. At first, I was happy to see him. But then…”
“But then what, Mom?”
“He started asking for money. Said he was in trouble. Things began disappearing from the house—Dad’s pocket watch, my grandmother’s ring. Small things at first.”
“Then one night last month, he showed up here, panicked. Gave me that phone and the cash. Told me to hide it. Said people might come looking for it. Then he vanished.”
“What kind of people?”
“I don’t know! That’s what scares me. He wouldn’t explain. Said if anyone asked, I should say I never saw him.”
I turned on the phone. Battery showed 3%. The call log had dozens of calls from one contact: “G.”
I called the number from my phone.
“Yeah?” a rough voice answered.
“Is this Gerard?”
A long pause. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Jeremy. Lisa’s son.”
Another pause. Then, softer: “Jeremy? You’re my little brother, right?”
We met at Murphy’s Diner on Highway 9. I spotted Gerard right away. His dark hair and stubborn jawline looked just like mine and the pictures Mom had shown me. But unlike me, he looked hardened—like life had carved him from stone.
“You look like her!” he said, sliding into the booth.
“You look like me, brother!” I laughed.
But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “This is weird.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I said. “Mom’s been terrified for weeks.”
He grew serious and pulled out a badge from his jacket.
“I’m a cop. Eastside PD. I was undercover, working to break up a drug ring moving money through the city.”
I froze. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes. But it’s complicated.” He rubbed his face. “I got in too deep. The criminals started getting suspicious. I had to disappear.”
“So the money?”
“Evidence. And some of my own savings. I needed Mom to hold it. Couldn’t risk anyone tracing it back to me. I took a few things from the house too—Dad’s watch, some jewelry. I planned to pay her back.”
“No wonder she thought you were a criminal.”
“I know.” His eyes filled with tears. “I was adopted. My parents told me the truth. I tracked Mom down through the agency. I couldn’t tell her the whole story—too dangerous. The less she knew, the safer she was.”
“The case ended last week,” Gerard said. “Three arrests, two convictions. I waited until it was safe to reach out.”
I looked at this stranger who was my brother—the cop living in the shadows to protect us.
“She hid the money in the pipes and has been washing dishes in the bathtub for two weeks.”
He winced. “I’ll fix the sink. And I’ll explain everything to her. She deserves that.”
“We both do.”
That night, the three of us sat around Mom’s kitchen table. Gerard told his story again, slowly, filling in every gap. Mom cried—relief washing over her, years of shame melting away, and the simple joy of having her sons together at last.
“I’m sorry I gave you up,” she whispered to Gerard.
“Mom, you did what you had to do,” he said gently. “We all did.”
Later, after Gerard fixed the sink and the dishes were finally clean, I thought about secrets and how they grow like mushrooms in the dark, feeding on fear until they burst out where no one expects them.
But I learned this: the truth always finds a way to surface—even if it’s buried deep inside old pipes. Sometimes, the best discoveries come from the places we’re most afraid to look.
Now, Gerard and I meet for coffee every Sunday. Turns out, having a brother is better than I ever imagined—especially one with stories that make my travel adventures look like a trip to the corner store.
“So, what’s next?” I asked him last week.
He grinned, the first real smile I’d seen. “Maybe you can teach me how to make one of those travel vlogs. I’ve got some stories people would want to hear.”
I raised my coffee cup. “To new beginnings!”
“And old family recipes!” he added, clinking his mug with mine.
From the kitchen, Mom called out, stirring her famous potato soup, now cooking for three.
“Boys! Dinner’s ready!”
Some things, I realized, are definitely worth coming home for.