Single mom dating is hard enough without your child finding human remains in your boyfriend’s bedroom. Yet that’s exactly where I found myself during what should have been a lovely seaside getaway with Jake and my eight-year-old son Luke.
The trip started magically. Jake’s parents adored Luke, and watching them bond over Jake’s childhood toys melted my heart. Then Luke’s accidental discovery of a bone-filled box under the bed turned our fairytale weekend into a horror movie.
I’ll never forget the terror in Luke’s eyes as he dragged me toward the door. In that moment, every true crime podcast I’d ever listened to came rushing back. We fled so fast I left my purse behind.
When police confirmed the bones were medical models, the embarrassment was crushing. How could I have doubted the man who’d patiently built 37 failed Lego towers just to make my son laugh?
Jake’s gracious forgiveness—and his parents’ good-natured teasing about their “criminal son”—taught me an invaluable lesson about trust. Now when Luke jokes about checking for skeletons, we all laugh. But I still peek under beds first.
