our secret.”
I forced myself to stay calm.
“What kind of secret?”
“I can’t say.”
That night, I tried to convince myself there was an innocent explanation. Maybe they were painting. Maybe he spilled something. Maybe Mom was preparing a birthday surprise for me. But the same strange pattern continued. One afternoon Ben came home wearing a completely different shirt.
“Where’s the blue shirt I put on you this morning?”
“At Grandma’s.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs.”
“Why is it upstairs?”
He stared at his shoes.
“I can’t tell you.”
That was when the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach became harder to ignore. A few days later, I called my mother.
“Mom, why does Ben keep coming home with his clothes changed or put on wrong?”
She laughed.
“He’s five, Sarah. He gets messy.”
“Why does he say you told him not to tell me what you
