My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

She flinched. “Why me?”

“Because if I open it and anything inside is damaged, I may say something I cannot take back.”

For a long second I thought she might refuse. Then maybe she saw in my face that I was not performing. She stepped forward, knelt, and lifted the latch.

The lid opened with its old familiar whisper of hinges.

Inside, the top layer looked mostly intact: folded quilts, old linens, a crocheted baby blanket with yellow ducks, a box of Christmas ornaments wrapped in tissue. Beneath that I found the photo tin, dented but present. The letters. The gloves. The baby dress.

And at the very bottom, beneath a stack of table runners and old receipts from hardware stores now long closed, there was something I had never seen before.

A sealed envelope.

Not the one I’d found in Boston. Another one. Thick cream paper. My name on the front in my mother’s handwriting.

Rebecca, if Diana has tried to take the house, open this with Evelyn.

My knees nearly gave out.

Evelyn saw the envelope in my hand and inhaled sharply. “Let’s take that inside.”