PART 5 — The First Messages
My phone screen lit up incessantly. Twelve missed calls from Jons. Four raging messages from Sabine on WhatsApp. I took a deep breath and opened the messaging app. My hands no longer trembled; fear had given way to a cold, analytical focus.
Sabine's first message, sent at 1:15 AM last night, was aggressive in tone right away: “Where are you? Jons went to your apartment to get the storage room key, but you weren't there. Don't think you can gain sympathy anywhere with a pitiful story. If you think you can push back, you're wrong.”
The second message, from this morning at 8:30 AM: “Dad, answer normally. Sabine is upset. Those oliebollen weren't necessary, we weren't hungry. You're massively exaggerating your hospital story. Call back, we need to sign some papers today for the finalization at the notary. Otherwise, the deal falls through.”
The deal. That's what it was about. Not my health, not a happy new year, not the bond between father and son. It was about the deal. About the sale of the property or unlocking liquid funds to finance their extravagant lifestyle. From earlier family gossip, I knew Jons was deep in debt to a local car dealership and Sabine had been keeping up appearances for months with expensive designer clothing financed via credit cards. The house on Lindelaan was their lifeline, their only way to fend off creditors.
And I... I was the obstacle they thought they had cleared away.
I decided not to respond. No phone call, no text, no sign of life. Let them guess where I was. Let them sweat in that large, furnished-with-borrowed-money house on Lindelaan.
At eleven o'clock in the morning, there was another knock. This time softer, almost hesitant. I walked to the door and opened it. There stood Noah, my eight-year-old grandson. His jacket was hanging over his shoulders, his beanie crooked on his head. In his hand, he held a small, wrapped gift with a crumpled ribbon on it.
"Grandpa?" he asked in a small, frightened voice. "Mom and dad are arguing at breakfast. Mom said you were mad, but I made this for you at school. Happy new year..."
My heart melted instantly. All the anger I felt toward Jons and Sabine melted away like snow in the sun as soon as I saw my grandson's innocent eyes. Noah knew nothing. Noah was the victim of their game.
I dropped to my knees, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him close. "Happy new year, sweetie," I whispered, as a warm tear finally carved its way down my cheek. This was the only real family I had. This child used by his parents as a bargaining chip in a dirty game of deception.
"Come in, Noah. Do you want an oliebol? Grandpa baked them himself yesterday, just the way you like them."
Noah nodded enthusiastically and followed me inside. But before he could even taste the oliebol, the front door of my apartment flew open with a loud bang. Jons stood in the doorway, breathless, his face twisted in panic and anger.
"Have you lost your mind, Dad?!" Jons yelled, storming inside. "Why aren't you answering your phone?! We're waiting for you at the notary!"
