“Then we’ll figure out what he left you. Together, if that’s what you want.”
My husband kissed the top of my head before returning to serve the girls’ dinner.
I felt a little more grounded.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I paced the house in restless loops, stopping at the back window. My reflection stared back at me—brown hair pulled into a thinning ponytail, tired eyes, pajama pants sagging at the knees.
I didn’t look like someone prepared to unearth buried truths.
I remembered something my mother used to say:
“You can’t hide what you are, Tanya. Eventually, everything finds its way to the surface.”
I’ve never been chaotic; my life runs on lists and calendars.
But the letter tucked in my pocket made a liar out of that version of me.
The next morning, after Gemma and Daphne left for school and Richie headed to work, I called in sick. I pulled on my gardening gloves, grabbed the shovel, and stepped through the back door.
Walking into Mr. Whitmore’s yard, I felt both like a trespasser and a little girl.
My pulse thudded unevenly in my chest.
I made my way to the apple tree, its pale blossoms trembling in the early breeze.