My husband's handwriting.
The way he made the letter “E.”
The way he crossed his “t.”
The slight slant.
The tiny downward hook at the end of each sentence.
My fingers began to tremble.
The note said:
If you're reading this, then someone finally gave away the blue umbrella.
I stopped breathing.
Eli moved closer.
“Mom?”
I read the next line.
And if Eli gave it away, then I know I raised him right.
I covered my mouth.
Detective Harris looked at me.
“What does this mean?”
“I don't know.”
But I did know one thing.
That was my husband's handwriting.
There was no question.
I flipped the page.
There was more.
Don't be afraid of the umbrellas.
They are not a warning.
They are a thank-you.
Then the final sentence:
Start with Number 2. Number 1 was meant for you.
I looked up.
“Why would my husband write this?”
No one answered.
Because my husband had been dead for two years.
Number 2
The detective allowed us to open Box #2.
Inside was a photograph.
A young woman stood beside a hospital bed.
She was smiling.
The patient in the bed was Ethan.
My husband.
He looked thin.
Very thin.
This must have been taken near the end.
I had never seen the photograph.
The woman in it was holding a little boy's hand.
On the back was another handwritten note.
I was terrified that day. Ethan sat with my son while I waited for the doctor. He gave us his umbrella because the storm was getting worse. He told my boy that storms always end.
I stared at the photograph.
A memory flickered.
Ethan had once told me he had forgotten his umbrella at the hospital.
I'd laughed.
“You're the one who tells everyone to prepare for storms.”
He'd smiled.
“There was a kid who needed it more than I did.”
I had forgotten.
I hadn't realized.
There were more lines.
I kept it for six years. I never forgot him.
When I heard that his son had finally given away the same umbrella, I knew it was time.
I looked at Detective Harris.
“Who is she?”
He turned the photograph over again.
At the bottom was a name.
Nora Bennett.
Eli whispered:
“The lady from yesterday?”