“My dear girl,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.
This is something I’ve been hiding for 40 years. In my yard, under the old apple tree, a secret is buried, one I’ve been protecting you from.
You have the right to know the truth, Tanya. Don’t tell anyone about this.
Mr. Whitmore.”
**
After a second, Richie looked up, squinting.
“Honey, why would a dead man send you to his backyard?”
“I… He wants me to dig the area by his apple tree.”
My daughter’s voice drifted from inside. “Mom! Where’s the bubble-gum cereal?”
Richie gave me a worried look. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, Rich. It’s… strange. I barely knew him.”
My husband squeezed my shoulder.
Gemma called again, louder. “Mom!”
I snapped back to the kitchen, dropping the letter onto the table.
“It’s in the cabinet next to the fridge, Gem. Don’t add sugar.”
“Well, it sounds like he wanted you to know something, Tan. Are you going to do it?” Richie asked.
Our youngest, Daphne, ran in, her hair wild from sleep.
“Can we go to Mr. Whitmore’s yard after school?” she asked. “I want to get more leaves to paint.”
Richie and I exchanged a look.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Let’s just get through the day first.”
The rest of the day dragged on endlessly.
I tied shoelaces, braided hair, wiped jam from sticky cheeks, and reread the letter so many times my thumb smudged the ink. Each time I folded it closed, my stomach twisted tighter.
That evening, while the girls watched television and Richie stirred spaghetti at the stove, I stood by the window, studying the apple tree’s gnarled branches.
He slipped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “If you want, Tanya, I’ll be there. You don’t have to face this alone.”
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