I took the key.
It was cold against my palm.
“What did she write?”
Albert looked toward the staircase.
“I think you should read it yourself.”
Then he handed me a notebook.
That was the beginning.
Not the divorce.
Not Daniel.
Not the money.
The notebook.
That night, after Lily went to sleep, I opened it at the kitchen table.
The first pages were ordinary.
Recipes.
Shopping lists.
Notes about customers.
Little observations about people Estelle knew.
Then, near the middle, the handwriting changed.
There were dates.
Names.
Memories.
And then I saw one name that made my entire body go still.
Margaret Calloway.
My mother’s name.
I read the line again.
Margaret Calloway.
My mother’s maiden name.
The entry was dated twenty-three years earlier.
Estelle had written:
Margaret came by the store today. She looked worried but refused to explain why. She bought a small toolbox for her husband and paid in cash. Before she left, she asked me to keep something for her. She said she might come back for it.
I stopped reading.
My mother had never mentioned Estelle.
Not once.
I turned the page.
Three pages later, there was another entry.
Margaret came back.
She was frightened this time.
