Martha had read those words three separate times in the dim light of her kitchen.

Christopher had never addressed her as “Mom” in any text message in his entire life; he always called her “Momma,” especially when he was stressed or worried about something.

She had packed a small bag, grabbed her daily medication, and taken the old framed photograph off her refrigerator door.

Her neighbor drove her to the bus depot before sunrise, and Martha spent the entire long ride north staring through the dusty bus window at passing fields, thinking about a funeral no one wanted her to attend.

Now, standing beside the deep grave, the truth was becoming obvious.