He shifted from foot to foot. “And she’s seventy-something, Mom. I’ll look it up before we get there.”
That was Ethan. No big speech, just one plain answer that made arguing feel mean.
So, I drove him to the hardware store. He picked the boards himself, asked a clerk which ones would hold in damp ground best, and spent the afternoon rebuilding the fence, all while I passed him brushes and kept telling him not to climb anything wet.
By sunset, the fence stood straight again, fresh paint drying across the rails.
Mrs. Whitmore pressed both hands over her mouth. Then she hugged him and said, “You got your hands from your father.”
“She’s seventy-something, Mom.”
I went still. There was no way the old woman knew my husband. It was probably just something that people say.
Now, standing in my kitchen with the officers gone, I looked down at the envelope again. Inside were two folded letters, one with Ethan’s name, and one with mine.
“Oh boy,” I mumbled.
Mrs. Whitmore hadn’t left us a goodbye. She’d left two truths, and somehow I knew neither would be easy to digest.
I looked down at the envelope again.
“Devon,
If you’re reading this, sweetheart, then I wasn’t able to tell Ethan myself.
There’s something I should have said long ago.
I’m not just your neighbor. I am Jeremiah’s mother.”
The whole room tilted. I’d buried that family years ago, and now one of them had been watering roses ten feet from my kitchen.
“No,” I said out loud. “No way.”
“There’s something I should have said long ago.”
My chair scraped back as I sat. My fingers tightened around the paper until it crackled.
