“Bennett,” I asked gently, “where’s Aunt Lauren?”
He stared at the floor.
“I… I don’t know.”
That made no sense.
Lauren would never leave him alone.
I crouched in front of him and rested my hands lightly on his shoulders.
His lower lip trembled.
“I don’t know.”
“Did she go outside?”
He shook his head.
“Did someone come to the house?”
His eyes moved toward the hallway again.
Then I noticed a narrow line of light beneath his bedroom door.
Bennett was careful about switching lights off because Lauren had convinced him every bulb left burning cost me a fortune.
Then I heard another sound.
It was so faint I nearly missed it.
A low whisper.
Then the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Bennett’s small fingers continued trembling.
“Mom… please.”
“They said you’d be angry if you found out.”
My heart hammered.
They.
Not she.
Not he.
They.
Bennett followed me for one step before stopping.
The whispering ended abruptly.
The bedroom became completely silent.
I closed my hand around the doorknob and opened the door several inches.
Then I froze.
The first person I saw was Lauren.
She crouched beside Bennett’s bed with one hand covering her mouth.
The second was a man I had not seen in eight years.
My father.
He appeared older than I remembered. His dark hair had become almost entirely gray, and his shoulders looked narrower beneath his brown coat.
An open cardboard box rested near his feet.
Beside him, Lauren had pulled Bennett’s toy chest away from the wall.
That had caused the scraping noise.
“Dad?” I whispered.
My father slowly stood.
“Ingrid.”
The sound of my name in his voice tightened something inside me.
He used to say it that way when I was a child, usually before apologizing for another broken promise.
“What are you doing here?”
Lauren stood quickly.
“Before you get angry, let me explain.”
“You told Bennett not to let anyone in?”
“No,” she answered. “Dad did.”
My father looked ashamed.
“I thought we would be gone before you got home.”
Bennett appeared behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“I didn’t tell her,” he said nervously. “She came early.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
Then I looked at Lauren.
“Why were you hiding in my son’s bedroom?”
She glanced toward the open cardboard box.
“We were looking for something.”
I stared at her.
“You brought him into my house without telling me, then searched through Bennett’s room?”
“We weren’t searching through his things,” Lauren insisted. “We were checking behind the toy chest.”
“For what?”
My father bent down and removed a loose piece of wooden trim from the wall.
Inside the narrow opening, wrapped in an old kitchen towel, was a small metal tin.
I recognized it immediately.
It was my mother’s recipe box.
The sight of it stole my next question.
My mother died when I was nineteen.
She had been ill for nearly a year, but my father disappeared before the end, claiming he could not bear to watch her condition worsen.
Lauren and I remained.
We took turns helping her eat, washing her hair, and sitting beside her when the pain became unbearable.
After the funeral, my father called twice.
I had spent years convincing myself his absence no longer mattered.
“What is that doing here?” I asked.
My father held the box carefully.
“What is that doing here?” I repeated.
Lauren glanced at the gap behind the toy chest.
“Dad said Mom hid it in this room before you bought the house.”
I looked directly at him.
“You knew it was here all this time?”
What I still did not understand was why they were standing inside Bennett’s bedroom with something my mother had hidden almost twenty years earlier.
The box did not contain recipes.
It held letters.
Dozens of them.
Each envelope carried a date, and every one was addressed to either Lauren or me.
My knees weakened.
“What is this?”
My father swallowed.
“Your mother wrote them during her last months.”
I looked toward Lauren.
