“You don’t have to stay here by yourself,” she said gently. “Come stay with me.”
“This is my home,” I replied.
Her smile stayed fixed. “We’ll talk later.”
Then I heard my name.
“Clover?”
I turned.
An older man stood there—late sixties maybe. Clean-shaven, deeply lined face. His tie sat too tight around his neck, as if someone else had tied it. He held his cup in both hands like it might fall.
“I’m sorry,” I said cautiously. “Did you know my dad from work?”
He nodded once. “I’ve known him a long time. Frank.”
I studied him. No recognition.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t meant to,” he said quietly.
That stopped me.
“What does that mean?”
He stepped closer. I caught the scent of engine oil and peppermint. His eyes scanned the room before he leaned in.
“If you ever want to know what truly happened to your mother,” he murmured, “look in the bottom drawer of your stepfather’s garage.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“I made him a promise,” Frank said. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my pulse racing.
He didn’t answer directly. He simply stepped back, expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, pressing a business card into my hand. “I wish your parents were here.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd as if he’d never existed.
I stood there, frozen, his words echoing louder than the organ music drifting from the living room.
That night, after everyone left, I returned to the house. I didn’t switch on the lights. The darkness felt softer somehow.
The garage door creaked as I lifted it. The air inside was thick with oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built himself. My footsteps echoed across the concrete floor as I walked toward the workbench.
The bottom drawer was deeper than the others. It resisted at first, then slid open with a low groan.
Inside lay a sealed envelope with my name written in Michael’s familiar blocky handwriting.
Beneath it sat a manila folder stuffed with legal documents, letters, and a single torn journal page.
I sank onto the cold floor.
