What followed would change everything I believed about my marriage.
Part 1: The mystery begins
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m eighty years old, and until recently, I lived a peaceful life in the house where my late husband, Robert, and I raised our family.
Robert passed away twelve years ago.
Even after all that time, I sometimes caught myself reaching for a second coffee cup in the morning.
His favorite chair remained beside the living room window, and his photograph stood on the mantel.
My children thought I should move somewhere smaller.
But I loved that house.
It held fifty years of memories.
My youngest son, Daniel, visited most Sundays with his wife, Sarah. My oldest daughter, Rebecca, called every evening, while Thomas, my middle child, lived several states away.
