I thought I knew every chapter of my sons’ lives because I’d been there for nearly all of them. Then they brought something from our past to my dinner table, and suddenly, the story I knew began to unravel.
The basket sat on my dining table as if it had fallen through time that Friday.
Woven wicker, one broken reed near the handle, the same faded blue lining I hadn’t touched in 20 years. My grown sons watched me from across the table, their dinner plates barely touched. I couldn’t move my hands.
“Mom?” Caleb’s voice sounded far away.
I was in my early 50s, but I felt 32 again, standing barefoot on a porch, staring at two tiny faces I’d never seen before.
