The first patch was uneven and messy, but Patrick loved it. After that, it became our tradition. Every spring, we turned the soil together and pressed new seeds into the ground. Every summer, Patrick sat among the tall yellow blooms and told Lily everything she had missed.
When he made the baseball team, he told the sunflowers first.
Last Saturday marked six years since we lost her. Patrick woke before sunrise and asked if we could bring lemonade to the garden before the day grew hot.
The moment we stepped outside, he stopped moving.
Every sunflower had been cut down.
Every single one.
Except one tall stalk standing in the center of the patch.
A small white box hung from it by a ribbon.
Patrick looked at me.
“Mom…”
My hands shook as I untied the ribbon. When I opened the box, my knees nearly gave out.
Part 2:
Inside was a photograph of a girl standing near a roadside sunflower field. She wore a yellow sleeveless dress, her collarbone bare in the sunlight.
For one impossible second, I thought I was looking at Lily.
Patrick grabbed the photo from me so quickly I barely had time to react. He stared at it without blinking.
“Mom,” he whispered. “That’s her.”
Behind the photo was a folded note.
I should have slowed down. I should have looked more carefully. But grief does strange things to the mind. I saw that girl, older and taller, and for a moment I saw the daughter I had buried in my heart become real again.
The note said:
“She is alive. Bring $40,000 if you want the truth.”
A phone number was written beneath it.
“Call now.”
I did not stop Patrick from dialing. I needed to hear someone say Lily’s name too.
He put the phone on speaker, his hands shaking.
A man answered on the second ring. His voice was low and calm, almost rehearsed. He said he knew what had happened to Lily. If we wanted the truth, we had to bring forty thousand dollars in cash to the Pine Crest Motel the next afternoon.
Patrick could barely speak.
“Is she okay?”
The man paused just long enough to make the silence hurt.
“She’s alive.”
That was all Patrick needed.
He broke down right there in the destroyed garden, clutching the photograph. I wrapped my arms around him, but I was crying too. Neither of us was thinking clearly anymore.
