Ravuth was forty-two when Father Eggleton died, which devastated him. The old priest was his only family, mentor, and friend. His Cambodian family and roots were now just a distant memory. The two companions had been together as father and son for over a quarter of a century and once again, Ravuth felt a lost, desperate soul, with no family or friends.
They buried Father Donal Eggleton in the small cemetery at the side of the church. On the day of the funeral, Donal’s replacement handed Ravuth a brown envelope containing the priest’s gold crucifix on a chain, a cheque from the church’s lawyers that represented Father Donal Eggleton’s estate, and a notice to vacate the vicarage. Ravuth hung the crucifix around his neck and read the letter.
“What does it mean,” He asked, frowning.
The new
