Before I could stop her, she grabbed the box and walked straight outside.
And dumped everything into the trash.
Noah didn’t scream.
He didn’t move.
He just stood there… trembling, crying silently.
My son came home early that day.
I looked at him, waiting—for once—for him to stand up for his child.
At first, he said nothing.
Then quietly:
“Wait here.”
And he walked inside.
A minute later, he came back holding a small wooden box.
Carefully.
Rebecca barely glanced at it—then suddenly froze.
Her face went pale.
“No… where did you find that?”
My son didn’t answer her.
He looked at Noah.
“It’s something she cares about deeply,” he said calmly. “Just like you care about your bunnies.”
Inside the box were old letters and photos.
Rebecca, younger… smiling in a way we had never seen.
Always with the same man.
Her past. Her memories. Her love.
“You called his memories trash,” my son said quietly. “Should I treat yours the same way?”
Rebecca rushed forward.
He stepped back.
“For months, I knew about this,” he added. “I didn’t say anything because I thought people hold onto things for a reason.”
Then he pointed toward the driveway.
“Go get every single bunny. All of them. Clean them. Fix the notes.”
She hesitated.