I learned that she missed driving.
I learned that she had been secretly ordering mystery novels because she disliked the books I had selected for her.
“You bought me a biography of Winston Churchill.”
“It was highly reviewed.”
“I have cancer, Bennett. I don’t need six hundred pages of someone else’s problems.”
Clara laughed so hard she spilled tea.
Mother looked delighted.
For the first time in months, perhaps years, I stopped thinking about what came next.
Then one Sunday afternoon, Mother asked us both to join her in the library.
Clara and I arrived together.
Mother sat near the fireplace with a wooden box on her lap.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to my father.
He kept important documents inside.
Mother ran her fingers across the lid.
“I should have opened this with you years ago.”
My chest tightened.
“With me?”
She nodded.
“Your father left instructions.”
