Inside was twenty dollars and a small note:
“For candy for the girls.”
We weren’t close.
But we were good neighbors.
Then, a few days ago, Mr. Whitmore died.
Since he had no family nearby, I helped organize the funeral. Only a handful of people came — a few neighbors, the pastor, and the funeral director.
The service was quiet and short.
Afterward, everyone went home, and life seemed ready to return to normal.
But two days later I found a sealed envelope in my mailbox.
My name was written across the front.
At first I assumed it was a thank-you note.
But the handwriting looked familiar.
My hands started shaking as I unfolded the letter.
“My dear Tanya,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.
For forty years I have kept a secret. Under the old apple tree in my yard, something is buried.
I protected you from the truth for as long as I could.
But now you deserve to know.w
