beanbag, the prom dress, the letters, and the photo of the granddaughter I had never held.
“Come home,” I said.
The line went silent.
“You know what I found,” I whispered.
He arrived just after dark.
His backpack slid from his shoulder when he saw the letters on the table.
“You knew she was alive?” I asked.
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I pressed the letters against his chest.
“You let me mourn her every day.”
His face changed.
“No, Mom. You kept digging the grave because it was easier than
