Mon fils a prêté son parapluie à une inconnue enceinte sous la pluie – le lendemain matin, 47 parapluies sont apparus sur notre pelouse, chacun avec une boîte numérotée qui m’a glacé le sang.

the door completely soaked.

I had answered the front door with a dish towel slung over my shoulder, already irritated because the pharmacy had called once more about a prescription still listed under my late husband’s name.

Then I looked at my son.

Water ran from his hair. His shirt was plastered to him, and his lips were quivering.

“Eli,” I said, pulling him inside. “Where’s your umbrella, baby?”

He met my eyes, and my stomach clenched.

I prayed it was not the blue one. Please, not the blue one.