A 12-year-old girl woke up one morning and decided she wouldn’t go to school that day. To that end, she lied to her mother, claiming she had a fever, dizziness, and a feeling of pressure in her stomach. Seeing the high numbers on the thermometer, her mother became alarmed, patted her daughter on the head, and allowed her to stay home while she went to work.
As soon as the front door closed, the “sick” girl jumped up, replaced the thermometer, which she had cleverly heated with a radiator, and turned on her favorite TV series. The day promised to be perfect: a test at school, peace and quiet at home.
But exactly at noon, a sound echoed through the apartment, as if someone was opening the front door. The girl immediately paused, her heart sank. It definitely wasn’t her mother—she always calls ahead and never returns so early.
To figure out what was happening, the girl slowly peered out into the hallway. Her father’s sister stood in the doorway—a stern, cold woman, someone the girl had never particularly trusted. But now her aunt looked completely different: tense, nervous, as if she were secretly hiding something.
The strangest thing was, where did she get the keys? No one had ever given her a copy.
Auntie looked around, checking the rooms, as if afraid of catching someone at home. After confirming the apartment was empty, she took her mother’s coat from the hanger and quickly, almost with a jerk, hid something in an inside pocket. Then she took out her phone and quietly said into the receiver:
“Hello… yes, it’s me. I did everything you said. You can come with the police this evening, yes, yes… I’m leaving now. Got it. Congratulations. That fool will never understand anything.”
The girl turned cold. Her aunt was talking about her mother. And she was clearly planning something terrible.
The woman left as quietly as she had entered. The door closed. The hallway fell silent.
The girl ran to her coat, shoved her fingers into the pocket with trembling hands, and pulled out something that shocked her 
Inside the pocket was a package. Small, tightly sealed, with something suspicious inside. She had no idea what it was, but she was sure it was what the police were planning to “come” and “congratulate” her that evening.
Were their aunt and their biological father, with whom their mother was divorced, trying to frame them? They’d put a package of illegal substances in their mother’s pocket, and when the police arrived that evening and found the package, their mother would be stripped of her parental rights and the girl would be taken away. And worse, their mother could be sent to prison.
There was no time to think. The girl grabbed the bag, pulled on her shoes, ran out of the apartment, and a few minutes later was throwing it in a dumpster far from the house, two yards away.
That evening, the police did indeed arrive. The girl stood next to her mother, trying not to tremble, as uniformed men carefully searched the entire apartment. They found nothing.
When the police left, the girl finally told everything: about her aunt, about the phone call, about the bag, about what she’d heard.
The mother remained silent for a long time, sitting on the edge of the sofa. Then she hugged her daughter so tightly, as if afraid to let go. And the next day, it was the mother who filed a report—this time about this aunt and her ex-husband.