His mother finally looked at me.
“He was talking about the old Miller house,” she said.
“The one outside town.”
I stared at her.
“What house?”
Her hands began to shake.
“He bought it six months ago.”
Six months.
While I was painting the nursery, my husband had been buying a house I knew nothing about.
“You knew he was sick,” I whispered.
“You knew all of it.”
“He begged me not to tell you.”
“And you listened?”
“He said the worry might harm you or the baby.
I drove him to every appointment, then helped him work on that house until he could barely stand.”
She reached into her handbag again and placed a brass key on top of the letter.
“He wanted you and the baby to have somewhere safe.
No mortgage.
No landlord.
Just a home.”
Anger and grief twisted together inside me.
“Then why didn’t he simply tell me?”
“Because the house isn’t everything.”
She pulled out her phone and opened a video.
My husband’s face appeared on the screen.
He looked pale, but he was smiling.
“If you’re watching this,” he said, “Mom has finally taken you there.
But before you open the blue door, ask her who else has a key.”
I turned toward his mother.
Her face had gone white.
“What does he mean, who else has a key?”
Before she could answer, someone knocked three times on my front door.
My husband’s final secret was waiting outside—and his mother clearly knew who it was.
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