Each year, my son planted sunflowers in memory of his twin sister who passed away—then one morning, we discovered them all cut down, with a white box left behind.

guilt. He’d heard about the land sale. He’d guessed we might have money.

And he’d decided our grief made us an easy target.

The sunflowers.

The white ribbon.

Emily’s photograph.

The small white box.

All of it, theater.

Cruel, calculated theater.

When I got home, Patrick was sitting beside the ruined garden.

For a long time neither of us spoke.

Then he said, continue reading …