“My dear girl,

If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.

This is something I’ve been hiding for 40 years. In my yard, under the old apple tree, a secret is buried, one I’ve been protecting you from.

You have the right to know the truth, Tanya. Don’t tell anyone about this.

Mr. Whitmore.”

**

After a second, Richie looked up, squinting.

“Honey, why would a dead man send you to his backyard?”

“I… He wants me to dig the area by his apple tree.”

My daughter’s voice drifted from inside. “Mom! Where’s the bubble-gum cereal?”

Richie gave me a worried look. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, Rich. It’s… strange. I barely knew him.”

My husband squeezed my shoulder.

Gemma called again, louder. “Mom!”

I snapped back to the kitchen, dropping the letter onto the table.

“It’s in the cabinet next to the fridge, Gem. Don’t add sugar.”

“Well, it sounds like he wanted you to know something, Tan. Are you going to do it?” Richie asked.

Our youngest, Daphne, ran in, her hair wild from sleep.

“Can we go to Mr. Whitmore’s yard after school?” she asked. “I want to get more leaves to paint.”

Richie and I exchanged a look.

“Maybe later,” I said. “Let’s just get through the day first.”

The rest of the day dragged on endlessly.

I tied shoelaces, braided hair, wiped jam from sticky cheeks, and reread the letter so many times my thumb smudged the ink. Each time I folded it closed, my stomach twisted tighter.

That evening, while the girls watched television and Richie stirred spaghetti at the stove, I stood by the window, studying the apple tree’s gnarled branches.

He slipped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “If you want, Tanya, I’ll be there. You don’t have to face this alone.”

I leaned back against his chest.

“I just need answers, Rich. He was always so kind. Every Christmas he’d leave an envelope of cash so we could spoil the girls with candy.”

“Then we’ll figure out what he left you. Together, if that’s what you want.”

My husband kissed the top of my head before returning to serve the girls’ dinner.

I felt a little more grounded.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I paced the house in restless loops, stopping at the back window. My reflection stared back at me—brown hair pulled into a thinning ponytail, tired eyes, pajama pants sagging at the knees.

I didn’t look like someone prepared to unearth buried truths.

I remembered something my mother used to say:

“You can’t hide what you are, Tanya. Eventually, everything finds its way to the surface.”