“Our son. And bees don’t care whose weekend it is.”
Then I knelt and wrapped my arms around Toby.
“Call me if you need anything.”
He glanced toward David before answering.
“I don’t get scared there,” he whispered. “Dad needs me.”
They drove away at four.
By six, I was following the tracker toward the lake.
I parked nearby and continued through the trees on foot until I reached a small cabin.
David’s car was parked outside.
Through an open window, I heard Toby’s voice.
“I sprayed the sleeping bags with the lavender stuff,” Toby said.
“Good. Your mom notices smells.”
My chest tightened.
A moment later, an older woman stepped onto the porch.
“There are my explorers.”
“Grandma Lou!” Toby cried, running straight into her arms.
I froze behind a tree.
Both of Toby’s biological grandmothers had passed away.
Yet my son was embracing this woman as if he had known her for years.
“I hate making him lie,” she told David.
“It’s temporary.”
“You’ve said that for months.”
“Holly needs time.”
I could barely breathe.
David had once mentioned a woman named Louise who had disappeared from his childhood. He had never told me that she had raised him.
He had certainly never told me that our son called her Grandma.
The Memorial Beneath the Tree
David soon led Toby toward the lake.
“Bring your note for Grandpa.”
I followed at a distance.
Beneath an old tree stood a small private memorial. Philip’s fishing hat rested there beside a childhood photograph of David and several folded notes.
Toby removed another note from his pocket.
“Are you going to cry today?” he asked.
David stared across the water.
“I’m fine.”
“You cried last time.”
“Toby.”
“I didn’t tell Mom.”
A gust of wind suddenly lifted the note from Toby’s hand.
It slid across the grass and stopped near the trees where I stood.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and caught it.
David turned.
The color disappeared from his face.
“Holly?”
