He never allowed me to eat white bread at mealtimes.
Ever since childhood, I had loved fresh, soft white bread.
But every day, George placed two slices of dark bread beside my plate.
“George, I don’t like this bread,” I would say.
He always replied,
“I know, sweetheart. But trust me.”
“Why?”
“One day, you’ll understand.”
And that was the end of the conversation.
At first, I thought he was simply worried about my health. But in recent years, his behavior had become increasingly strange.
He always bought the bread himself. He kept it in a separate cupboard. And sometimes, he wouldn’t even let me see the
packaging.
One afternoon, while he was outside in the yard, I opened the cupboard.
Inside, I found several packages of dark bread and a small white envelope.
My name was written on it. Margaret.
Just as I was about to open it, I heard George’s voice.
