Then every other Sunday.
Then only on holidays.
The thought destroyed me.
Thursday evening, Daniel came over.
“Dad, be ready tomorrow morning. Wear something comfortable.”
“Where are we going?”
He hesitated.
“You’ll understand when we get there.”
I did not sleep that night.
The next morning, I put on my light shirt, dark trousers, and the watch Martha had given me on our fortieth wedding anniversary.
I kept looking at that watch.
For some reason, I wanted to have something from her with me if this really was the day I was leaving home.
Daniel drove.
Sarah sat beside him.
I sat quietly in the back seat.
Nobody spoke much.
The city slowly disappeared behind us.
The roads became narrower.
Then came the trees.
Mountains.
Fog.
Long stretches of road with almost no houses.
With every mile, my fear grew heavier.
Finally, Daniel pulled over beside a metal guardrail overlooking a huge green valley.
