PART 5

Around noon, Daniel asked me something that made my stomach tighten.

“Maria, did Dad leave you anything?”

I looked at him.

“Anything?”

“Money. A letter. Something.”

“Why would you ask me that?”

He shrugged.

“Because he gave you that pillow.”

Rebecca suddenly looked up.

“What pillow?”

Daniel laughed.

“The ugly old one from his bed. She wouldn’t let me throw it away.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes.

“Dad was sick. He probably didn’t even know what he was doing.”

I said nothing.

But my fingers closed around the key in my pocket.

Daniel continued.

“We should probably check everything before anyone takes anything.”

My husband frowned.

“Daniel, we’re not going to fight over Dad’s things.”

“I’m not fighting.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I just want everything to be fair.”

Fair.

The word stayed with me.

Because for twelve years, fairness had never been part of the arrangement.

I had given Ernest my time.

My sleep.

My strength.

My patience.

I had missed birthdays because he needed me.

I had canceled trips because he couldn’t be left alone.

I had spent countless nights sitting beside his bed while everyone else lived their lives.

And I had never once asked for payment.

Not once.

So if Ernest had wanted to leave me something, why had he hidden it inside a pillow?

That afternoon, everyone finally left.

My husband took our son to the grocery store.

I stood alone in the kitchen.

I took the key from my pocket.

Then I went downstairs.

The basement smelled like damp earth.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling.

I walked slowly across the concrete floor.

I had seen this basement hundreds of times.

There were shelves along the walls.

Old farming equipment.

Boxes.

Broken chairs.

Cans of paint.

A workbench Ernest had built himself decades ago.

I remembered him sitting there when I first married into the family.

He had been sixty-seven then.

Strong.

Broad-shouldered.

His hands were covered with calluses.

He could still lift a fifty-pound bag of feed.

Now those same hands had struggled to lift a glass of water.

I swallowed hard.

“I’m looking, Dad.”

I whispered.

“But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

I checked the walls.

Nothing.

The shelves.

Nothing.

The old workbench.

Nothing.

Then I remembered something.

The number.

I looked around.

There was an old wooden cabinet beneath the stairs.

It had seventeen small drawers.

I had never paid attention to it.

I walked toward it.

My heart started beating faster.

I counted the drawers.

One.

Two.

Three.

…

Seventeen.

The key fit the seventeenth drawer.

CONTINUE READING PART6…