But apparently Mama’s guilt never disappeared. Instead, she began secretly taking small amounts of money from Wayne whenever she believed he wouldn’t notice.
Five dollars here. Ten dollars there. Sometimes slightly more.
Every bill went into the flour tin.
She continued for eleven years, and even after Wayne eventually left her, Mama kept adding whatever she could from her pension, Social Security, tax refunds, birthday money, and a small inheritance. Dollar by dollar, the amount eventually reached the $18,940 now sitting on the kitchen counter in front of me.
It wasn’t enough to replace the $63,000 Wayne had stolen, and Mama knew that. But it represented everything she had managed to recover after spending decades carrying the guilt of what she had allowed to happen.
Then I reached the final page.
Unlike the others, it had been folded separately and sealed with yellowing tape. Mama had written one instruction across the outside.
“Read this at First County Bank. Not in the house.”
I put every dollar back into the flour tin and closed the lid. Then I walked past Russell without another argument, carried Mama’s secret to my car, and drove directly toward the bank.
At that point, I believed I had already discovered the truth.
I hadn’t.
