I was at a cafe with my son and daughter-in-law. While they went to pay the bill, a woman placed a blue box on my table and said,
“You’ll need this tonight.”
Before I could ask her anything, she disappeared.
I hid the box in my bag and went home. When I finally opened it, I screamed in horror.
Don’t forget to subscribe to the channel and comment where you’re watching from.
The cafe smelled like cinnamon and burnt coffee beans, a combination I’d grown fond of over the years.
It was one of those autumn afternoons in rural Vermont when the maple trees blazed red and orange outside the windows and the whole world seemed to slow down just enough to breathe.
My son Timothy and his wife Diane sat across from me, their voices blending into the ambient noise of clinking cups and muted conversations.
“Mom, you really should consider selling the farmhouse,” Diane said, stirring her latte with mechanical precision. Her manicured nails clicked against the ceramic cup. “It’s far too much space for one person.”
I smiled politely, the way I’d learned to do over the past year.
“I’m managing just fine, dear.”
Timothy shifted in his seat, avoiding my eyes.
At 42, my son had inherited his father’s broad shoulders, but none of his backbone.
“What Diane means is that we’re worried about you out there alone with all those acres to maintain.”
“Your father and I maintained that farm for 37 years,” I said quietly. “I think I can handle it for a while longer.”
The conversation died there, as it always did when I mentioned Mark—my husband, dead for nearly a year now. Or so everyone believed.
His car had been found submerged in Eagle Lake last November, pulled from the murky depths with the driver’s side door open and no body inside.
The police had declared it an accidental drowning after three weeks of searching. The current was strong, they’d said. Bodies sometimes never surface.
I’d buried an empty coffin.
“We should get the check,” Diane announced, standing abruptly.
She always did that when the conversation turned uncomfortable. “Timothy, come help me at the counter.”
I watched them walk away, their heads bent together in whispered conference. They did that a lot lately.
Talked about me when they thought I couldn’t hear.
At 64, I’d discovered that being a widow made people treat you like you were made of glass—fragile, and liable to shatter at any moment.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
