“You did it,” he said quietly. “Kim, you actually did it.”
“We did it,” I corrected him, realizing that they had become the best part of my life.
He didn’t answer.
Twenty years.
That’s how long I lived inside the story I thought I knew. Until last Friday, when both boys showed up at my door without warning, and neither one could look me in the eye through dinner.
I stared at the basket.
The weave, the frayed edge on the left handle, the small stain near the base. I knew every inch of it.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered.
Noah couldn’t look at me.
“Mom. Please. Just let us get through this.”
“Where did you get that basket, Noah?”
Noah sat down beside his brother and folded his hands like a little boy in trouble.
He was 20 years old, and he looked six.
“Raymond gave it to us,” Noah said.
The name shook the room as if a plate had been dropped.
“Raymond gave you what?”
“The basket. And the truth.”
Caleb blinked hard and looked down at his hands again.
