My son borrowed my husband’s laptop one quiet afternoon to study for his exams. It was an ordinary moment, the kind that feels completely safe. I barely looked up from the kitchen counter when he asked. He took the laptop to his room, thanked me, and closed the door.
Life went on as normal—until it didn’t. About an hour later, he came back out. His face was pale, his shoulders stiff, the way they get when a child knows something is wrong but doesn’t yet have the words to explain it.
“Mom,” he said quietly, holding the laptop like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I accidentally found a folder of… weird photos on Dad’s laptop. I think you should see this.”
