Then she noticed another item. A little piece of folded paper lay on the plate. Her breath caught in her throat as she picked up the message, her hands shaking. She slowly unfurled it.
The handwriting seemed unsteady, as if the person who wrote it had trouble forming the letters. The message was straightforward: “Thank you.” She felt confused and angry at the same time.
“Who would take Henry’s pie?” Nancy gripped the letter hard and mumbled something beneath her breath. “I got this for my kid. Nobody was allowed to handle it.
A stranger had invaded her private ritual, which was her way of paying tribute to Henry’s memory. The wrath was overpowering, and she felt as if someone had stolen a piece of her pain.
