I blinked.
“My father?”
Elena smiled.
“Terrible soup.”
“That sounds more like him.”
Her laugh broke the heaviness.
Then she touched my arm.
“He told me someone once did the same for your family.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“When you were little.”
“No one did.”
Elena seemed puzzled.
“He said a woman brought food every week when your mother was ill.”
My skin went cold despite the sun.
“My mother wasn’t ill when I was little.”
Elena’s face changed.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I misunderstood.”
Dad was by the shed, stacking empty buckets.
I walked toward him.
“Dad.”
He kept working.
“Dad, who was Mara?”
His shoulders became still.
“And who brought us food when Mom was sick?”
He turned slowly.
For several seconds there was only the sound of car doors closing along the road.
Then he looked past me toward the gray wooden marker.
“Mara brought the food.”
