single Thursday.”
I don’t know how long we sat there. Holding hands across that little round table in the empty kitchen, both of us crying.
Finally, she let go. She wiped her eyes with her cloth napkin. She put her reading glasses back on. She was Mrs. Whitaker again. Straight back. Crisp voice.
“There’s one more thing in the box,” she said. “Under the lid. Taped to the inside.”
I picked up the lid of the shoebox. I turned it over.
Taped to the inside, there was a long white envelope. On the front, in her perfect cursive, it said: For Willa.
“Open it,” she said.
“Mrs. Whitaker—”
“Open it, Carly.”
I peeled the tape off carefully. I opened the envelope. Inside, there was a folded piece of paper. A bank statement. From a college savings account.
At the top, it said: Beneficiary: Willa Rose Brennan.
I didn’t understand what I was looking at. I read it three times. Then I saw the number at the bottom. The balance.
