Her unfinished dollhouse still sat near the window, its front door hanging crooked.
“Don’t touch that,” I said.
“You’ve had 40 years to fix it.”
“I know.”
My legs weakened, so I sat on Aria’s bed.
A sharp crack sounded beneath me.
Jackson turned.
“Don’t touch that.”
“Was that the frame?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I repaired wood for 45 years. That sound came from inside the mattress.”
We turned it over and found a puckered seam with tight, uneven stitches.
“Aria did this,” I said. “She always pulled the thread too tight.”
I cut the seam, reached inside, and pulled out a dust-covered wooden box.
“How do you know?”
***
Inside were photographs, a letter from Gwen, a birthday card, and two folded notes.
The photographs showed me with a woman from work. In one, my hand rested on her arm. In another, we were entering a café.
I knew how they looked.
However, it was my wife’s handwriting on the first page that stole my breath.
Inside were photographs.
“Andrew, if you’re reading this, something has happened to me. Read everything carefully. Don’t trust Gwen. There’s something you never knew.”
The note ended there.
Under it was a page written in purple crayon.
“Daddy, I hid Mommy’s letter because I didn’t want you to be mad. I’m sorry. Please don’t let her leave.”
I read it three times.
Jackson sat beside me.
“There’s something you never knew.”
