“Where’ve you been?”
“Practicing, hon.”
By the fourth Sunday, I knew she was hiding something.
So the following week, I parked down the street before six-thirty.
At 6:27, Mom’s Toyota backed out.
I knew she was hiding something.
I followed.
Nearly 40 miles later, she turned behind an old community center.
“Where are you going?” I whispered.
Mom parked, opened her trunk, and changed into worn jeans, heavy boots, and an old jacket. Then she pulled out a shovel and a large red bag.
“Where are you going?”
Every harmless explanation I’d rehearsed disappeared.
I waited before following her through a gate.
Mom was already kneeling in the dirt.
She opened the red bag and removed a sealed metal box. Before she lowered it into the hole, I saw three envelopes.
Monica.
Ryan.
David.
“Mom?”
waited before following her through a gate.
She spun around. The shovel dropped.
“What are you doing here?”
