Mr. Whitmore was always polite, smiling, helping with the lawn, or carrying in heavy grocery bags whenever he noticed I needed a hand.
Every Christmas, he would leave $20 in our mailbox with a note: “For tasty candy for the kids.”
We weren’t close, but we had a good neighborly relationship.
A few days ago, he passed away.
I even helped organize the funeral. Not many people came.
Two days later, I found a sealed envelope in my mailbox.
My name was written on it.
Out of curiosity, I opened it right away and pulled out a handwritten letter.
It was from Mr. Whitmore.
“My dear, if you’re reading this, I’m no longer here. There is something I’ve been hiding for 40 years. In my yard, under the old apple tree, a secret is buried — one I’ve been protecting you from. But you have the right to know the truth. Don’t tell anyone about this.”
My hands went cold. How was that possible? I barely knew him.
