Part 1: The Woman I Barely Recognized
My mother, June Abernathy, had always been a cheerful woman with a round face, a generous laugh, and an endless supply of homemade desserts. At eighty years old, she still baked cinnamon rolls every Saturday, made apple pie on Sundays, and insisted that our family gather for dinner at four o’clock every Sunday afternoon.
My name is Annie Cole, and I’m fifty-four years old, living in Lakewood, Ohio, with my husband, Dave. We have two grown children, Tyler and Grace, and my mother lives only seven minutes away in the Rocky River house where I grew up.
Mom had remained independent since my father, Bill, died in 2009, keeping busy with church, volunteering, and her weekly bridge games. She rarely traveled, so I was surprised when she announced in October that she intended to spend seven days visiting an old friend named Margaret Feeney in Erie, Pennsylvania.
