“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.

I waited patiently until she finally went upstairs with a basket of laundry.

Then I turned toward Harper and spoke in a low voice.

“Put on your shoes.”

Her eyes widened with fear.

“Are we going outside?” she asked.

“We need to look,” I answered quietly.

We slipped through the side door instead of the back entrance.

The grass was still wet from the morning dew while my heart pounded louder with each step toward the lilac bushes.

The spot of disturbed soil was exactly where I remembered it.

Leaves covered the surface carefully, but the ground beneath them remained slightly uneven.

I grabbed a small hand trowel from the garden shed and knelt down beside the patch.

Harper crouched next to me with pale cheeks.

“What if they come outside?” she whispered.

“Then we leave immediately,” I replied.

The soil gave way easily under the metal blade because it had been freshly turned only hours earlier.

After several minutes the trowel struck fabric.

I froze.

Harper inhaled sharply beside me.

I brushed dirt away carefully until the zipper of the duffel bag appeared beneath my fingers.

My heart pounded wildly.