Noah laughed harder than anyone.
That night, I told Noah how proud I was of him.
At 6:30 the next morning, he burst into my bedroom.
“Mom! You have to see this!”
Our lawn was covered with lunchboxes.
There had to be fifty of them.
Dinosaurs. Footballs. Superheroes. Bright colors stretched from our porch almost to the sidewalk.
“Are they all for me?”
I had no idea.
Then Noah spotted one sitting alone in the middle.
It was a huge, battered metal lunchbox with a note taped to the lid:
“Open this one first.”
He knelt and opened it.
For several seconds, he didn’t move.
Then his face went white.
“Mom…”
I hurried over.
Noah stumbled back from the lunchbox, trembling.
“Mom, there’s so much. Is it stolen? Should we call someone?”
Then I looked inside — and I understood why my son had gone pale.
The old metal lunchbox was full of cash.
