I opened the envelope and turned the key over in my hand. It was a small, brass thing, heavy enough to be real and ordinary. A folded note lay beneath it. One sentence: “Evelyn March. PO Box 412.” No explanation, no greeting. I sat on the kitchen floor with the note and let the house hum around me. The kettle cooled untouched. For a long minute I imagined every possible ally and every villain. Anger came first, hot and bright. Then something steadier arrived, a plan forming like a scaffold.
I drove to the post office with the children and told them ice cream was at the top of the list. The clerk handed me a plain parcel when I produced the number and the brass key clicked in my palm. Inside were neat photocopies, tabs, and a short typed letter: “You don’t owe explanations. You deserve options. Call me.” Under it lay three items that made something in me shift: a copy of the deed, emails, and a notarized affidavit from a social worker. Dates clashed, language betrayed intent, and the tone of the documents implied a plan I had not imagined.
Evelyn’s number was written at the bottom. I dialed from the car. She answered on the second ring, voice precise and warm. “Come,” she said. “Bring coffee. We’ll move fast.”
I told the children we were going away for a weekend. In the mirror they packed small things, toys and a stuffed rabbit. As I watched, a quiet current shifted inside me. The thing that had kept me for twenty years loosened. Fear remained, sharp and practical, but so did something like courage. If this was a beginning of loss, it might also be the start of finding my own ground. I started the engine, and drove.
