“We went to Hawaii. Don’t worry, Mrs. Margaret. At your age, it’s better for you to stay home and rest.”
That was the note held to the refrigerator by a turkey-shaped magnet.
Margaret Collins read it three times as she stood alone in the silent kitchen of her son Daniel’s home in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Thanksgiving mornings had always carried the scent of cinnamon, fresh coffee, and butter. But that Thursday, the house smelled like nothing. There were no voices, no cartoons playing somewhere in the background, and no sound of her grandchildren racing down the hallway.
“Emily,” she called first.
Nothing.
“Jack.”….
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