I had washed it.
But I had never been able to throw it away.
Inside was the tiny piece of paper from Mom’s note.
Eat the soup.
It’s good for you.
I placed Ava’s new container beside it.
Mom’s handwriting.
Ava’s handwriting.
Side by side.
Then I closed the freezer door.
I thought about Mom standing at her stove that final Sunday.
Making enough soup to feed everyone.
She couldn’t stop Greg from gambling.
None of us could.
But she could protect what remained.
She could save money.
Rewrite her will.
Protect her grandchildren.
Preserve Greg’s inheritance until he was ready to receive it.
And she could hide one tiny key inside a container of chicken noodle soup for the daughter she knew would eventually come home.
Mom had told me she was filling the freezer before winter so everyone would have enough.
