“Mom, wake up.” My eight-year-old daughter shook me in the middle of the night. “Dad and Grandma are burying something in the garden.” I looked out the window and saw my husband and mother-in-law holding shovels, lowering a large bag into the ground. The next morning, my daughter and I dug it up. The moment I saw what was inside, I grabbed her hand and ran from the house.

Harper clung to the sleeve of my pajama shirt while whispering with fear, “Mom, what are they doing?”

My mind raced through terrible possibilities that I did not want to speak aloud, and none of the explanations that formed felt harmless enough to give to an eight year old child.

Brandon shoveled the first pile of dirt back into the hole, and the soil landed with a dull sound that made my chest tighten.

Suddenly Judith looked toward the house.

My body froze completely.

She stood still for a moment as if listening to the silence around her, and then she leaned toward Brandon and spoke quietly while he nodded and began filling the hole faster.

Within minutes the pit disappeared under packed soil.

They spread loose leaves across the surface and rolled a wheelbarrow over the spot to disguise the disturbed ground until the garden looked almost untouched again.

Then they carried their tools toward the back door of the house.

Harper’s fingers tightened around my arm.

“Mom, are they coming inside?” she asked softly.

I stepped away from the window and forced my voice to remain calm.

“Get back into bed,” I whispered gently while guiding her under the blanket.