“She was Barbara’s daughter,” Patterson explained.
Then came the part that stopped us cold.
Emily had died eleven years earlier.
She was sixteen.
She had been killed by a drunk driver after leaving the house following an argument with Barbara.
Barbara had blamed herself ever since.
Her son, David, had blamed her too.
He had left for college shortly afterward and rarely returned.
That evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bags.
Why would Barbara suddenly start throwing away her daughter’s belongings after eleven years?
Anna warned me not to judge her.
“She may be grieving in a way we don’t understand.”
Two mornings later, Barbara collapsed beside the curb.
Anna and I ran across the street.
Up close, Barbara looked even worse.
Her face was pale, and her scarf had slipped, revealing patches of missing hair.
We helped her inside.
That’s when we noticed the medicine bottles on her kitchen counter and a calendar filled with medical appointments.
Barbara eventually told us the truth.
She had stage-four ovarian cancer.
Doctors believed she had only a month or two left.
Her son David was finally coming home.
And that was why she had started clearing out Emily’s belongings.
“I thought if I emptied the room,” she said quietly, “David wouldn’t have to lose Emily again while losing me.”
My heart sank.
I admitted that I had opened one of her bags.
Barbara looked hurt.
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
