Finally, I excused myself and hurried to the guest room.
My mother was staying with us temporarily because her house was being renovated. She was folding laundry when I entered.
“Mom,” I whispered, shutting the door behind me. “There’s a boy here from Susan’s school. He looks exactly like her.”
My mother froze.
The towel slipped from her hands.
“His name is Noah,” I continued. “He has her eyes. Her curls. Mom, I know this sounds insane, but he looks like Clark.”
My mother went pale.
She sat slowly on the edge of the bed and pressed one hand to her chest.
Then she let out a long, tired sigh.
“Honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “sit down. It’s time for the truth to come out. But don’t tell Daniel anything yet. Promise me.”
The Truth My Mother Carried
I stared at her.
“What truth?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I have lived with this for ten years,” she whispered. “And every day, I told myself I was protecting you. But maybe I was only too afraid to face what should have been faced long ago.”
My legs weakened. I sat down across from her.
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
She took my hands.
“Clark didn’t die that day.”
The room tilted.
I pulled my hands away as if she had burned me.
“No,” I said. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that unless you know.”
“I know.”
“You were at the funeral!”
