The drive to Jean’s house felt different that Mother’s Day.
The front door was unlocked when I arrived.
I almost called out, but then I heard her speaking in the kitchen in that bright tone she used only when she thought nobody was listening.
I stopped in the hallway because I didn’t want to interrupt.
Then I heard my name. I peeked into the kitchen and saw her speaking on the phone with her back to me.
“… only Anna. The other one sent me a simpering message about not being able to come.” She laughed. “I trained them well, I tell you. They’re so eager to please, they’d set themselves on fire to keep me warm.”
I heard her speaking in the kitchen.
A pause. Just long enough for me to stop myself from screaming. Then more laughter.
“Oh God,” she gasped. “I still can’t believe that not once in 15 years did those two fools suspect a thing. I keep thinking — how are they this naïve? And I fooled their pathetic mom as well. She has no idea that—”
She stopped suddenly and scanned the room. I quickly ducked back into the hallway.
“… that she’s been screaming into a void for 15 years,” Jean finished. “I made sure none of them even saw those letters.”
Letters? Our mother had sent us letters?
Not once in 15 years did those two fools suspect a thing.
“She just had to be difficult,” Jean said with a sigh. “It was easy enough to convince her that Richard planned to leave her homeless and strip her parental rights in a divorce. Richard mentioned at work once that she had a history of depression, and I told her he planned to get her committed.”
I covered my mouth with one hand. Did that mean what I thought it meant? Had Jean orchestrated my mom’s disappearance?
“Those text messages you helped me fake were very convincing. She ran, just as I knew she would, but the letters started a year later.”
I wanted to throw up.
But more importantly, I had to find those letters!
Had Jean orchestrated my mom’s disappearance?
“Honey, I have to go,” Jean said suddenly. “Yes, Mother’s Day with my devoted daughter. Pray for me.”
I looked down at the flowers in my hand. Then I looked up at the kitchen doorway, where Jean’s shadow moved across the floor, humming to herself.
And I realized, very calmly, that today was not going to be the Mother’s Day she expected.
My legs almost buckled, but I forced them to move.
Today was not going to be the Mother’s Day she expected.
I stepped into the kitchen with the brightest smile I could fake.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Jean!”
She spun around, startled. For half a second, her face flickered, then snapped back into warmth.
“Oh, sweetheart! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Door was unlocked. I brought your favorites. From Lily and me.”
She took the bouquet from my hands.
“Where is Lily? She should be here.”
I stepped into the kitchen.
“She has a double shift and couldn’t make it. She sent her love and said she’ll make it up to you.”
“Hmm… alright. Sit, sit. Your father will be back soon, and the quiche is almost ready.”
“Actually, can I use the bathroom first?”
“Go ahead, honey. You know where it is.”
I walked down the hallway slowly, like nothing inside me was breaking. I passed the bathroom. I kept going.
Years ago, Jean had declared the hall closet off-limits. She’d said she was keeping her personal things there, but I suspected that was where I’d find Mom’s letters.
“Actually, can I use the bathroom first?”
I eased the hall closet door open.
It was full of Jean’s things — last season’s designer coats and bags, mostly.
Right at the bottom, three stacked shoeboxes caught my attention.
My heart hammered as I kneeled.
I lifted the lid off the first box.
It was full of letters addressed to Lily and me.
