On his desk sat a small, locked wooden box. He handed the key to me, saying Thomas had specifically instructed that I should be the one to open it. The little metal click sounded far too loud for such a small thing. Inside were five envelopes, one for each of us, all addressed in Thomas's shaky handwriting from his final years.
We found corners of the office or turned our chairs, as though privacy still mattered.
I opened mine.
"My sweet girl," the first line said, "Susan left because she discovered something about me the rest of you never knew."
I stopped breathing. Then I kept reading.
"Susan left because she discovered something about me the rest of you never knew."
My eyes blurred so fast that I had to wipe them and start again.
Thomas wrote that Susan had found an old heart-shaped locket in his desk. Inside was a photograph of him standing beside a young woman. Susan recognized the woman instantly. Her mother.
Then came the truth that buckled my knees.
Across the room, Noah was crying quietly into one hand. Mara had both palms pressed over her mouth. Michael kept blinking at the page. And Susan had gone completely white.
She finished the letter, folded in half as if something inside her could not stay upright, shoved the paper into her coat pocket, and walked out without a word.
Susan recognized the woman instantly.
"Susan!" I called.
She kept going. I ran after her.
Susan made it to the oak tree across the street before her body gave out. She bent over with both hands on her knees and cried so hard it looked painful. Not quiet crying. The kind that comes from years of certainty collapsing all at once.
I put my arms around her before she could argue.
"I made a terrible mistake, Christie," she said into my shoulder.
The others caught up and formed a rough circle around us. Susan pulled Thomas's letter from her coat and held it out to me, hand trembling.
