I barely recognized my 80-year-old mother when I picked her up at the train station after a week visiting an old friend.
She had lost so much weight that her clothes hung loosely from her shoulders, and she was struggling to pull an enormous black suitcase.
“Mom, what happened to you?”
She forced a weak smile. “Nothing, Laura. I’m just tired.”
But something was terribly wrong. And when I eventually opened that mysterious suitcase, I discovered a photograph, a child’s sweater, and a secret my mother had kept from me for nearly fifty years.
I almost walked straight past her at the station.
She was standing near a bench, holding the handle of a large black suitcase. Her gray hair looked disheveled, her face was unusually pale, and her familiar cardigan appeared several sizes too big.
“Mom?”
She turned toward me.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
I hurried over.
“Are you feeling all
right?”
“Of course, darling. Just a little worn out from traveling.”
