After her funeral, I packed up her belongings and moved away.
There were things about my childhood I preferred not to remember.
Especially the summer I turned twelve.
That was the summer Patricia Mercer disappeared from our lives.
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I met Patricia when I was eleven.
She was a social worker assigned to our neighborhood after several families reported problems with unsafe housing.
Our landlord had ignored a leaking roof for years, and mold had spread through two bedrooms.
Patricia visited our house several times.
She was in her forties, with short brown hair and a habit of carrying peppermint candies in her purse.
She helped my mother apply for housing assistance.
She brought me used books.
Once, when our electricity was shut off, she arrived with groceries and paid the overdue bill.
My mother was embarrassed.
Patricia told her that everyone needed help sometimes.
Then, one afternoon, I overheard them arguing.
I was supposed to be outside playing basketball.
Instead, I was standing in the hallway.
My mother was crying.
“You promised me nobody would ever find out.”
Patricia answered quietly.
“Caroline, I can’t keep pretending this didn’t happen.”
“You don’t understand what he’ll do.”
“I understand exactly what he might do. That’s why we need to handle this properly.”
I remember my mother saying one final thing.
“If you tell him, you’ll destroy everything.”
Patricia left that afternoon.
I never saw her again.
When I asked where she’d gone, my mother told me Patricia had moved to another state.
I believed her.
Until Eleanor’s lawyer mentioned her name.
⸻
The lawyer introduced himself as Martin Caldwell.
He suggested we sit somewhere private.
We drove separately to a small coffee shop near his office.
I ordered coffee I never touched.
Martin placed the envelope on the table.
