They Left My 8-Year-Old Son on the Side of the Road. Two Hours Later, Their Perfect Lives Began to Fall Apart.
My father, Thomas Caldwell, was a well-known contractor in our quiet Ohio town — the kind of man people trusted with handshakes and Sunday smiles. He was a Rotary Club board member, the one who sponsored the high school football team every year and paid for the town’s Christmas lights. My mother, Margaret, ran the community garden and hosted tea parties that made her the unofficial queen of suburbia. Together, they were the picture of small-town virtue — generous, respectable, admired.
But I knew the truth
Behind the smiles and fundraisers, they were master manipulators. Every favor had strings attached. Every kind gesture came with a debt of gratitude you’d never quite finish paying.
My parents had always believed they were untouchable.
