She died at seventy-eight after suffering a stroke in her sleep. The hospice nurse believed it had happened quickly and that Mama probably hadn’t known what was happening, and because I desperately needed that version to be true, I accepted it.
Her funeral took place on Thursday, and by Friday morning my older brother Russell had decided we should clear out the house within two days. Russell had always handled grief by staying busy, so while he packed the living room, I began sorting through the kitchen and pantry.
Eventually, I found myself staring at the flour tin again. For the first time since childhood, there was nobody left to tell me not to touch it.
The moment I lifted it from the shelf, I knew something was strange because it was much heavier than a container of flour should have been. I carried it to the counter, removed the lid, and discovered there wasn’t a single cup of flour inside.
Instead, the tin was packed with cash. Bundles of twenties, fifties, and hundred-dollar bills were held together by old rubber bands, and beneath them was an envelope with one name written across the front in Mama’s handwriting.
Linda.
Not Russell. Not “my children.” Just me.
Russell entered the kitchen and stopped when he saw what I had found.
“What is that?”
