As a single mom, I often rely on food delivery when I’m too exhausted to cook for my kids. Over time, Ravi, our usual delivery guy, became more than just a familiar face. He was always friendly, exchanging high-fives with my children, Kai and Isla, before heading off. But last Tuesday, something felt different.
Ravi arrived looking unusually tense. He handed me our food without a word and hurried back to his car, leaving me puzzled.
“What’s wrong with Ravi?” Kai asked, peering out the window.
“I don’t know, buddy. Maybe he’s in a rush,” I replied, watching his car disappear down the street.
As I set the food on the kitchen counter, still wondering about Ravi’s strange behavior, I noticed something scribbled on the back of the delivery bag. The shaky handwriting caught my attention immediately, and when I read the message, dinner was the last thing on my mind.
“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”
