“Who are you?” I asked, my pulse racing.
He didn’t answer directly. He simply stepped back, expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, pressing a business card into my hand. “I wish your parents were here.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd as if he’d never existed.
I stood there, frozen, his words echoing louder than the organ music drifting from the living room.
Bottom drawer.
That night, after everyone left, I returned to the house. I didn’t switch on the lights. The darkness felt softer somehow.
The garage door creaked as I lifted it. The air inside was thick with oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built himself. My footsteps echoed across the concrete floor as I walked toward the workbench.
The bottom drawer was deeper than the others. It resisted at first, then slid open with a low groan.
Inside lay a sealed envelope with my name written in Michael’s familiar blocky handwriting.
Beneath it sat a manila folder stuffed with legal documents, letters, and a single torn journal page.
I sank onto the cold floor.
And I opened the envelope.
“Clover,
If you’re reading this, it means Frank kept his promise. I asked him not to tell you until I was gone. I didn’t want you carrying this while you still had me. Frank used to work with me, and I always said he’d outline us all…
I never lied to you, kiddo. But I didn’t tell you everything.
Your mom died in a car accident, yes — but she wasn’t just out running errands. She was driving to meet me. We were going to sign the guardianship paperwork that day. You know… to make it official.
But she panicked.
And your Aunt Sammie had threatened court. She didn’t think that I was fit to raise you, she said that blood mattered more than love.
Your mom didn’t want a battle. She was scared of losing you. I told her to wait… to let the storm pass. But she got in the car anyway.
I should’ve stopped her.
