Fishing poles hung along one wall.
A workbench filled another.
And in the center sat something covered with a tarp.
I pulled it away.
It was a wooden sign.
Hand-carved.
Unfinished.
The letters read:
MARGARET’S PLACE
I looked at Mom.
She put both hands over her mouth.
“My name.”
Frank nodded.
“Daniel wanted to build a retreat here.”
“For what?”
“For families dealing with mental illness.”
Mom sank onto a nearby stool.
Dad’s notebook lay on the workbench.
A different notebook.
This one contained blueprints.
Cabins.
A central kitchen.
Walking trails.
A fishing dock with wheelchair access.
A counseling room.
At the top of one page, Dad had written:
No kid should have to be told someone disappeared just because adults don’t know how to explain illness.
I sat down.
That sentence hurt more than anything else.
Dad had known.
He knew the lie had damaged me.
