One said Monica.
One said Ryan.
And the third said David.
In front of her was a hole.
Dad.
My father had been dead for eight years.
“What are you doing here?” Mom demanded.
I pointed at the box.
“Mom, what is that?”
“What are you doing here?”
Her face changed.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
***
Two months earlier, my biggest concern was whether Mom should be driving at all. She had never driven a car in her life.
During her 52-year marriage to my dad, he handled every mile. Mom handled almost everything else.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
After he died, my younger brother, Ryan, and I stepped in without even discussing it, mostly me.
I took Mom to the grocery store, her appointments, the pharmacy, anywhere she needed to go.
Truthfully, I liked knowing she needed me.
So when Mom set down her coffee one Tuesday and said, “I’m learning to drive,” I laughed.
