and which one showed her daughter, Evelyn, graduating from college.
I knew the guest-room sheets had to be folded with the blue stitching facing outward because Mrs.
Whitaker liked things that way.
And yet, standing there that Saturday morning, I suddenly realized something terrifying.
I knew almost nothing about the woman herself.
Mrs.
Whitaker placed the envelope in my hands.
“You’ve spent eight years taking care of this house, Carly,” she said softly.
“But I don’t think you ever realized how much attention I was paying to what was happening in yours.”
My fingers tightened around the envelope.
“What does that mean?”
“Open it.”
So I did.
And the first document I pulled out made my knees weak.
It was a check.
Not for a few hundred dollars.
Not even for a few thousand.
I stared at the amount once.
Then twice.
Then a third time because surely I had
