The Son & His Hope (The Ribbon Duet 3)

I kissed her temple fast, a flurry of affection that didn’t hurt me too much and gave Mom the contact she needed. “I’m fine, Mom. Honest.”

She sighed again. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep. Just need to change real quick.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you to it even though I’m still suspicious. Gonna tell me what you’re up to?”

“Nope.” I grinned, backing into my room and closing the door slowly. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Five minutes,” she warned as my door clicked closed.

I darted back to my badly wrapped gift, finished tying the bow, threw on a pair of jeans that didn’t have grass stains on, sprayed some deodorant under my black T-shirt, then glanced warily at my door again.

For moments like this, I wished I had a lock.

My heart gave a little kick as I headed to my wardrobe, stepped inside the shallow cupboard, and dropped to my knees. There, I used the tip of my Swiss Army blade to ease up the floorboard I’d loosened and stashed things I knew would hurt Mom.

Things like the letter Dad left me under my pillow the night he died, as if he knew he wouldn’t see morning. The stack of photos I’d taken on the old cell phone I’d had as a kid and begged Grandpa John to take me to the store to print off. Photos of me and Dad in the field, by the pond, cooking a barbecue, him hugging Mom in the kitchen, him laughing with Aunt Cassie on the deck, him kissing Mom as starlight kissed them both.

A treasure stash that would only cause her more grief.

And there, beneath the junk of old barn and gate keys, random pieces of hay, and a harmonica Dad tried to teach me to play and failed, was a plastic bag with four small packages.

Packages that had kept me up at night with curiosity, begging me to open them but knowing I never could.

Because they weren’t addressed to me.

Tipping them out, I shuffled them around until the scribbled numbers on top faced upward.

All four, wrapped in blue satin paper, glinted in the evening sunshine streaming through my windows. All were about the same size but with different numbers setting them apart.

Today’s number would be the first I had to give.

When I first found the bag, stashed in my wardrobe inside one of my old paddock boots a month or so after Dad had gone, I’d been desperate to grow older just so I could watch Mom open them. For a long time, it’d added to my desire to leave school. But then my own desires meant I couldn’t face going to class any longer and today was the day I was both no longer a student and could finally give Mom her first gift from the grave.

Putting the box with ‘number one’ inked in black pen onto my knee, I smoothed out the letter that came with the small bag.

Hi Wild One,

I didn’t know how to do this without hurting you. Should I have told you before? Should I not have done it? I still don’t know the answers to those questions. And I’m sorry if this is hard and unfair. But I know you’re brave and strong and such an awesome son that you will understand and be kind enough to do this for me.

Enclosed are four packages for your mother. But she’s not to have them now. It’s up to you to hide them until things come to pass, okay?

You’re to give them to her as gently as you can. No explanations. She’ll figure out the hows and whys for herself—she always has. Also, don’t make a big deal out of it, but if she hasn’t cut a piece of her blue ribbon lately, perhaps replace what I’m sure is looking pretty tattered when you give each of these.

The only rule is this:

Don’t, under any circumstance, give any of these to your mother if she has found someone who loves her as much as I do. If she’s with someone else, I’m happy she’s happy. If she’s not, I’m happy I still have her heart. But regardless if she’s married or dating or only just met someone who makes her smile again, do not, I repeat, do not, give her these.

Bury them in the forest and forget about them. I hurt her enough when I left too soon. I refuse to hurt her more while she’s still living.

Okay, Jacob?

I know that’s a hard thing to ask of you, but I’m trusting you to do what I say. And I’m also trusting you to accept someone new into the family if that is where her happiness lies. Promise me you won’t make it hard for her. Yes, you and your mother will always be mine.

Even gone, I’m not giving her up.

But I can share her for a little while if that makes her life more bearable.