She began crying.
She pulled Oliver into a long hug.
For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then she held his face between her hands and whispered something into his ear.
Oliver didn’t respond.
When we walked back home, I asked him what she had said.
He just shrugged.
“Nothing.”
I assumed that was the end of it.
I was completely wrong.
The next morning, I opened our front door.
And froze.
Our entire yard had changed.
There were piggy banks everywhere.
On the porch.
On the steps.
Along the walkway.
Even beside the mailbox.
Dozens of them.
Some were tiny ceramic animals.
Some were old glass jars.
Some were colorful plastic piggy banks clearly belonging to children.
They had been arranged in neat rows.
I stood there trying to understand what I was looking at.
Then I noticed the police cars.
Two of them were parked outside our house.
Their lights weren’t flashing, but their engines were running.
An officer stepped out and walked toward me.
“Are you Oliver’s mother?”
I nodded.
“What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked toward the piggy banks.
“Ma’am, we need you to open one of those.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His expression became serious.
“Because we need to know what’s inside.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced toward his partner.
Then back at me.
“Mrs. Adele contacted us last night.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.”
He paused.
“But she gave us information that we need to verify.”
I looked at the dozens of piggy banks scattered across my yard.
