I kept the brass key in my coat pocket the entire drive home. I didn’t take it out. I didn’t even look at it again. Just feeling its weight was enough. It represented another secret, another door waiting to be opened, and for the first time since this all began, I wasn’t in a hurry.
I was tired. Not physically. Emotionally. Months of betrayal, grief, discoveries, and unanswered questions had left me exhausted. Rose noticed my silence during the drive but didn’t interrupt it. Some thoughts needed room before they became words.
The house felt different. Not because anything had changed physically, but because I had. I walked through the front door and instinctively placed a hand over my stomach. This house had witnessed nearly every version of my life—my childhood, my marriage, my father’s
