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.
Please don’t tell anyone.”
I read the letter three times.
It made no sense.
I barely knew the man.
Why would he leave something like this for me?
That night I barely slept.
The words kept repeating in my mind.
Under the apple tree.
The next morning curiosity finally won.
After Richie left for work and the girls went to school, I grabbed a shovel and walked next door.
The apple tree stood near the fence where it always had, its branches crooked with age.
I pushed the shovel into the ground.
The soil was soft.
After a few minutes the blade hit something hard.
A dull metallic sound echoed through the quiet yard.
My heart started racing.
I knelt down and brushed away the dirt until the edge of a small metal box appeared.
It was rusty and heavy.
Old.
I pulled it out of the ground and wiped away the mud.
For a moment I just stared at it.
Then I opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Old ones.
At the top was a picture of a young man in a hospital room holding a newborn baby.
When I looked closer, my breath caught.
Because the baby in his arms…
was me.
Under the photograph was a hospital bracelet with my name on it.
And another letter.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“My darling Tanya,
