Every morning, she prepared breakfast for three.

One plate for herself and two for her sons.

She warmed the milk because the younger one had never liked it cold.

She cut the crust from the older boy’s bread and placed a little more jam on his side of the plate.

At eight, she cleared the untouched plates.

She did this every morning for twenty-seven years.

The neighbors knew not to ask about it.

Her sons had disappeared together when they were six and nine years old.

No bodies were ever found.

No one ever learned what happened to them.

Inside the house, the boys never grew older.

Their clothes were replaced when the fabric became too fragile.

Always in the same sizes.

Their beds were made.

Every September, she bought two new school notebooks.

She wrote their names on the covers in careful handwriting and placed them inside their schoolbags.

At Christmas, she wrapped two presents and left them beneath the tree.

By spring, she quietly put them away.

When she died at the age of sixty-three, the police entered the house.

On the kitchen table were three plates.

Beside them was a note she had written before she died.

It contained one sentence.

“If they come home tonight, please tell them I waited.”

The milk was cold.