That night, once everyone had gone home, I returned to the house. I left the lights off. The quiet darkness felt kinder somehow.
The garage creaked open. The air smelled of oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built himself. My footsteps echoed across the concrete as I walked to the workbench.
The bottom drawer was deeper than the others. It stuck for a moment before sliding open with a soft groan.
Inside sat a sealed envelope with my name written in Michael’s familiar blocky handwriting.
Underneath was a folder filled with legal papers, letters, and a single torn journal page.
I sat on the cold floor and opened the envelope.
“Clover,
If you’re reading this, Frank kept his promise. I didn’t want you carrying this while I was alive. I never lied to you, but I didn’t tell you everything.”
The letter explained that my mother really had died in a car accident—but she hadn’t just been running errands. She had been driving to meet Michael so they could sign official guardianship papers for me.
But she was afraid.
My Aunt Sammie had threatened to fight for custody. She believed blood mattered more than love and argued Michael wasn’t fit to raise me.