We Moved in to Care for My Husband’s Grandmother

Then he glanced toward the garden.

“You didn’t dig under the apple tree,” he said slowly.

I said nothing.

His expression darkened.

“Claire.”

“You knew,” I said quietly.

He looked away.

“I found the chest,” I continued. “And everything inside it.”

His jaw tightened.

“Whatever you think you discovered…”

“I found your birth certificate,” I interrupted. “And the letters from your mother.”

The word mother seemed to hit him like a slap.

“She’s not my mother,” he said coldly.

“She wrote to you for years.”

“She abandoned me.”

The anger in his voice filled the room.

“When I was two years old, she left a note for the babysitter saying she couldn’t do it anymore,” he said. “She told her to take me to social services.”