maybe she’ll surprise us.”
“Maybe,” he said softly.
That night, after Eli had gone to sleep, I touched the empty hook beside the door. It had once held Darren’s keys, his hat, his coat, and after he passed, Eli’s umbrella.
“I know you’d be proud of him,” I whispered. “But I still wanted that umbrella to come home.”
Three mornings later, I opened the front door to get the newspaper and dropped my coffee mug. It smashed against the porch.
Hot coffee splashed onto my ankle, but I barely noticed.
All I could see was my yard, filled with open umbrellas.
Forty-seven of them.
They were arranged in neat rows from the mailbox all the way to the maple tree. Beneath every umbrella sat a small white box with a number painted across the lid.
Numbered 1 to 47.
“Mom?” Eli called behind me.
He stepped onto the
