“Ben makes promises,” she said, her voice dropping to a happy murmur. “Promises, Cathy.”
“What kind of promises?” I asked.
She looked at me, her smile wide and innocent, but she did not say another word as she hurried toward the back porch.
I followed her slow, heavy steps, the porch light illuminating the frost starting to form on the wooden railing.
She had a secret, and for the first time in our lives, she wasn’t sharing it with me.
The kitchen was dark when I went back inside, save for the narrow beam of the stove light reflecting off the linoleum floor.
My mother had already gone upstairs, leaving her empty tea mug in the sink.
I walked over to the trash bin under the sink, my hand hesitating on the plastic lid before I pushed it open.
Right at the top, resting on a bed of coffee grounds and onion skins, was the crumpled blue paper my mother had tried to hide.
I smoothed the wet pages on the counter, my fingers brushing against the bold, embossed letters at the top.
