“Why is your mom at the house?” He whispers. His eyes are alert, his body practically vibrating with energy. “I thought she didn’t want anything to do with this place.”

“She doesn’t. That’s the whole point.” Did she change her mind?

We army crawl together to the railing, then lie on our stomachs, peering over the edge of the enclosed porch. The moon is acting as a spotlight, but even if it weren’t, I would recognize my mother’s perfect posture in her crisp white blouse anywhere. She lets herself in through the side gate, moonlight gathering on her hair as she makes her way to the back.

“Oh no,” I breathe.

“Is she coming inside?” He whispers. “Because I really can’t get caught being here.”

I really can’t get caught being here either. I’m imagining a scenario in which I cling to Mason’s shoulders like an extra backpack while he climbs down the side of the house, but luckily my mom bypasses the door, walking sure-footedly toward the back garden.

“What…” Mason whispers. I scoot in closer to him, then shimmy as far forward as I can over the ledge. Mom hesitates for a moment, then makes her way to the willow tree. When she gets there, she pauses, looking up at it. For once, the tree is static, its branches still in the windless night.

She’s here to look at the tree? My heart is beating so loudly, I’m having a hard time hearing much of anything. She steps under the willow’s branches and I lose sight of the top of her head, but then she crouches down, placing her palm on the trunk of the tree.

She stays that way for one, two, three, ten seconds. I’m holding my breath. The sky is completely clear of clouds, the air thick and humid, and all I can hear are insects and the thrumming of my own heart.

What is she doing? Mason is alert next to me, his breathing quiet. Finally, after what feels like hours, my mom slowly drops her hand, then stands. She glances up at the house for one moment, and my heart hammers—can she see us?—then she reaches up, grabbing one of the willow tree’s branches and… ties it in a knot? Did I see that correctly? A moment later, she leaves through the gate, all traces of her disappearing into the moonlight.

If it weren’t for Mason next to me, I might think I’d imagined it. For several moments, neither of us dare move, then I let out a swooping exhale. “She really came to look at the willow tree?”

“No, she came to kneel before the willow tree,” Mason says. “And… tie a knot in its branches. What was that about? Is she a tree worshipper?”