On Mother’s Day, a little girl appears at my door holding my son’s backpack—revealing a truth I was never meant to find.

chest tightened.

“When?”

“That day.”

I reached for the bag, but she stepped back.

“No,” she whispered.

“I have to say it first, or I’ll get scared and run.”

I swallowed hard.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sarah.”

“Come in, Sarah. Would you like some juice?”

She looked behind her like someone might stop her.

“I didn’t steal it.”

“I know.”

“I was guarding it.”

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