I saw my daughter-in-law throw a leather suitcase into the lake and drive away. I ran over and heard a muffled sound from inside. “Please, don’t let it be what I think it is,” I whispered, my hands trembling. I dragged the suitcase out, forced the zipper open, and my heart stopped.
Let me explain how a quiet October afternoon turned into the most terrifying scene I have ever witnessed.
It was 5:15 p.m. I was on the porch of the house where I raised Lewis, my only son, the house that felt too big since I buried him six months ago.
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