That was the word doing all the work.
“Why under the thread, Grandma?” I asked.
I already knew something bad was coming.
June looked straight at me.
“Because your mother found them last Christmas at my kitchen table looking for a scissors. She read every one. She put them back where they were, and she never said a word of it to me or anybody.”
Last Christmas.
Ten months earlier.
My mother had known my Asheville address for ten months while her church continued praying for its missing daughter.
She
