On the day my mother was buried, I dug out an iron box in the wall of the old house.
Inside the box were the names of seven people, and a harmonica engraved with the letter "L".
My mother is a psychiatrist, and she has spent her whole life helping people "forget". But I didn't know it until after she died—she had personally erased the entire summer from my mind when I was eight years old.
Seven children, an accident that was covered up, and a name that had been hidden for twenty years.
My mother did not die of illness.
And the man who killed her may have been sitting across from me and called me "uncle" for twenty years.
