“I wanted Mom’s sweater.”
A sad smile crossed his face.
“It still smelled like her.”
Several people looked away.
“The ring was sitting on the dresser.”
Noah swallowed.
“I picked it up because I thought she would need it when she came home.”
My chest tightened.
At eight years old, he had still believed Mara was coming home.
Then Noah looked toward his grandparents.
“I heard Grandpa talking.”
His grandfather stiffened.
Noah continued.
“You said, ‘Sell whatever’s valuable. Those children are going to cost somebody a fortune.’”
His grandfather inhaled sharply.
“Noah—”
“I understand now you weren’t talking about selling Mom’s things because you hated her.”
His eyes dropped.
“But I was eight.”
His voice finally cracked.
“I thought you were.”
No one moved.
“So I hid the ring.”
He looked back at me.
“I thought if I kept one thing where nobody could find it, I could protect something that still belonged to Mom.”
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
