A moment later, he appeared.
“Mom? What’s going on?”
“Where’s Grandma?”
“She’s upstairs.”
“Get out of my way!”
I pushed past him and ran toward the bedroom.
My mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching a framed photograph of my father.
Her face was wet with tears.
Beside her lay the open black bag.
Inside were family photographs, a small notebook, several envelopes, and a thick folder marked with the name of a medical clinic.
“Mom!” I cried, kneeling beside her. “Did he hurt you?”
She looked at me with frightened eyes.
“Margaret?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
For a moment, she seemed confused.
Then she whispered something that broke my heart.
