She set the box carefully at my feet.
“Friend of yours?” he asked.
“Used to be,” I said.
“You want me to throw that out?”
I almost said yes.
I almost kicked it across the lobby.
But Lydia had said it contained answers, and I had to know the truth.
I almost kicked it across the lobby.
“No,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
I carried the box back to my desk and set it on the corner.
***
For the rest of the afternoon, it sat there, pulling at the edges of my concentration.
Three times I almost dropped it in the trash bin.
Three times I almost opened it.
At five o’clock I tucked the box under my arm and walked to my car.
“I’ll take it.”
I didn’t open it during the drive.
I didn’t open it when I got inside my apartment, kicked off my shoes, or poured myself a glass of water.
I set it on the kitchen counter and circled it like an animal circling a trap.
“Why would you come back now?” I muttered out loud, as if Lydia could hear me through the walls. “Why today, of all days?”
“Why would you come back now?”
The silence didn’t answer.
I thought about my father’s eyes the day he announced the marriage, the way they hadn’t quite met mine.
We were afraid you’d react this way.
But we’re doing this for you.
The phrase had haunted me for a year.
We’re doing this for you.
I’d dismissed it as manipulation, as the cheap script of a woman caught with her hand in someone else’s life.
But what if it wasn’t?
Don’t miss
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself. “She’s not the victim. You are.”
I stared at the black box.
Then I carried the box into my bedroom.
What if it wasn’t?
I sat on the edge of the mattress, and set it on my lap.
The twine was tied in a careful bow.
It slid loose with almost no resistance.
My fingers hovered over the lid.
“Whatever this is,” I whispered, “I can handle it.”
I broke the seal on the dark box, completely unaware that the contents would shatter my reality.
My fingers hovered over the lid.
Inside was a photograph of my mother that I had never seen before.
And beneath that—
My hands shook as I unfolded the letter.
