The drive felt longer than an hour. My grandmother gripped the steering wheel like it was the only stable thing left in her world. The letter lay on the console between us, as if it might burst into flames if we ignored it too long. Neither of us spoke much. When we did, it was only in fragments.
“What promise?” she muttered once. “What did he hide?” I asked, and hated how small my voice sounded.
Her answer was almost too quiet to hear. “Whatever it is… it must have mattered enough that he planned this.”
When we arrived, the address led us to a small house tucked behind a row of trees. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t run-down either. It looked lived-in, cared for. Wind chimes hung on the porch. A child’s bicycle leaned against the railing.
My stomach twisted so tightly I thought I might be sick. We walked up the steps and knocked. A few seconds later, the door opened.
A woman stood there, about my mother’s age. Brown hair pulled into a loose knot. Soft face, but guarded eyes—eyes that had practiced holding back feelings for a long time.
When she saw my grandmother, she froze. Her breath caught. Then she nodded once, like she’d been bracing for this moment for years. “I know who you are,” she said, voice shaking. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. You need to know something Thomas was hiding from you. Come in.”
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