On the day we buried my mother, I dug an iron box out of the wall of the old house.
Inside were the names of seven people and a harmonica engraved with the letter "L."
My mother was a psychotherapist. Her whole life, she helped people "forget." But it wasn't until after she died that I learned she had personally erased the entire summer of my eighth year from my mind.
Seven children, a covered-up accident, and a name hidden for twenty years.
My mother did not die of an illness.
And the person who killed her may be sitting right across from me, someone I've called "Uncle" for twenty years.
