She didn’t know that when I was twelve, I put my shame in that old thing. I was watching it for days to make sure nobody really cared about it. The jar sat there on the top shelf of the kitchen my whole childhood, collecting dust. The pig-shaped jar seemed silly, inconspicuous. I knew if I ever had to do anything “bad”, as father would say, it could help me out. Nobody would look there. For as long as I knew, nobody touched it.

When we we went to visit, I would notice it from the corner of my eye. Still there, still collecting dust. I wondered if my grandma even knew she still had it. I knew what was still inside, and what it could do it our family. Especially know that I was in my twenties.

Last week, though, after church, I noticed the jar was gone.

“Grandma,” I said, trying not to let my voice shake. “Where’s that old cookie jar?”

“Oh, we did some spring cleaning,” she laughed. “We donated it to the church rummage sale.”

I smiled with childish mischievousness. Somebody was about to have the worst day of their life.