It looked clean and neat and peaceful, nestled there in the foothills of the Ozarks. Yes, on that night I was proud of our home.
My bare feet made no noise as I crossed the porch. With my free hand, I reached and pulled the leather that worked the latch.
Slowly the door swung inward. I couldn’t see my father or sisters.
They were too far to the right of me, but my mother was directly in front of the door, sitting in her old cane-bottom rocker, knitting.
She looked up. I saw all the worry and grief leave her eyes. Her head bowed down. The knitting in her hands came up to cover her face.
I stepped inside the room. I wanted to run to her and comfort her and tell her how sorry I was for all the worry and grief I had caused her.
The booming voice of my father shook me from my trance. He said, “Well, what have you got there?”
Laughing, he got up from his chair and came over to me. He reached and took the sack from my shoulder.
“When we started looking for you,” he said, “I went to the store and your grandpa told me all about it.
It wasn’t too hard to figure out what you had done, but you should have told us.”
I ran to my mother and, dropping to my knees, I buried my face in her lap.
As Mama patted my head, I heard her say in a quavering voice, “Oh, why didn’t you tell us? Why?”
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