This was the tree their mother had loved and named, decorated in the spring when she was still herself. The decorations were gone now—their father, in his anger and grief, had seen to it—but the thick tree still stood.
“No,” Mrs. Ware snapped. “After teaching forty-seven years I know what’s in them, and I can assure all of you that I have enough bath powder and linen handkerchiefs to last a lifetime.”
Mothers of boys fell to weeping each time snow fell on Hague during the winter of 2004.