She forced a weak smile. “Nothing, Laura. I’m just tired.”
But something was terribly wrong. And when I eventually opened that mysterious suitcase, I discovered a photograph, a child’s sweater, and a secret my mother had kept from me for nearly fifty years.
I almost walked straight past her at the station.
She was standing near a bench, holding the handle of a large black suitcase. Her gray hair looked disheveled, her face was unusually pale, and her familiar cardigan appeared several sizes too big.
“Mom?”
She turned toward me.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
I hurried over.
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