“Grandma, Jake isn’t doing anything bad,” she whispered.
Jake stood in the corner, struggling to hold back tears.
“Grandma, please don’t be angry. I wanted to tell you, but…”
“Then explain why your sister keeps crying in this room!”
He lowered his head.
“Because she remembers Grandpa.”
My heart stopped.
My husband, Robert, had died eight months earlier. We had been married for forty-six years.
Since losing him, I had spent countless nights reaching across our empty bed, wishing he were still beside me.
I always tried to hide my grief from the children.
Apparently, I
hadn’t succeeded.
“Grandpa?” I whispered.
Jake walked toward the closet and opened the bottom drawer.
Inside was Robert’s favorite blue shirt.
I recognized it immediately.
He had worn it almost every Sunday when the grandchildren visited.
After his death, I had donated most of his clothes, but kept that shirt.
A month ago, it disappeared.
Now I saw that someone had cut it into pieces.
