The next day, I called her, pretending to change my mind. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer,” I said. “Can I stop by later to pick something else from Dad’s things?”
Her tone brightened instantly. “Of course, darling. Come by this afternoon. We’ll have tea.”
When I arrived, April greeted me with her best smile. She had laid out some of Dad’s belongings — a watch, cufflinks, an old tie — all carefully arranged like bait. I played along, asking about each one, pretending to be interested. Then, halfway through my tea, I excused myself to “use the bathroom.”
Instead, I slipped quietly into her bedroom. My heart pounded as I opened the top drawer. There it was — her jewelry box. Inside, among tangled necklaces and brooches, was a small brass key stamped with the same brand name as the toolbox lock. I pocketed it, whispered a quick thank-you to the universe, and returned to the living room as though nothing had happened.
“I think I’ll sleep on it,” I told her before leaving.
Back home, I didn’t wait a second. I slid the key into the lock, and with a soft click, it opened. Inside was… nothing unusual. Just tools — screwdrivers, wrenches, bolts, and a flashlight. I almost laughed. But when I lifted the bottom tray, something thin and flat caught my eye.
It was an envelope, sealed in thick plastic. Inside were legal papers — divorce papers — between my father and a woman named Susannah. My mother.
The same mother I’d been told had died when I was two.
My heart raced as I read the details. The divorce cited “irreconcilable differences caused by instability and unsafe behavior.” My father hadn’t lost his wife — he’d left her. And April had known.
Furious, I drove to April’s house. When she opened the door, I held up the key. “You knew,” I said. “You lied to me.”
Her face went pale. “It was for your own good,” she insisted. “Your mother wasn’t well — she had episodes, disappeared for days. He was protecting you.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Protecting me? By pretending she was dead?”
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