The silver was tarnished around the edges, requiring a steady, firm pressure to bring back the shine.
My mother, Evelyn, sat opposite me, her fingers slowly smoothing the fabric of her faded floral apron.
“Mom, do you know where Dad kept the old property deeds?” I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to startle her.
She looked down at her lap, her touch lingering on a crease in the cotton fabric.
“In the metal box, I think,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the table. “Or maybe the desk in the hall.”
She paused, her brow furrowing as she tried to grasp a memory that was slipping away.
“He had a box,” she whispered again, her fingers pausing on her apron. “But your father always talked about the tenth square.”
I stopped polishing and set the spoon on the wooden tabletop. “The tenth square? There are only nine on Arthur’s plan.”
