Chapter 1

It took me two weeks after Dad's funeral to work up the nerve to go into his study.

Since my mother had died when I was five years old, I had had little contact with my father and had been living with my grandmother.

It still smelled like his pipe tobacco. His reading glasses sat on the desk with fingerprints still on the lenses from whatever he'd been reading last. I took a deep breath and started cleaning out this room that had been off-limits when I was a kid.

The books were perfectly organized, like old friends lined up on the shelves. I pulled them down one by one, packing them into boxes, when I noticed a copy of "Remembrance of Things Past" tucked in the corner. It wasn't worn like the others—it was surprisingly clean, no dust at all.

I opened the cover and froze.

Mom's handwriting stared back at me: "To my dear Nathan, may we both find eternal beauty in the passage of time. —Grace"

I'd know that handwriting anywhere. When I was little, she'd guide my hand across the page, so patient and gentle. But why would Dad read this book so much?

A small brass key fell out from between the pages and hit the floor. I bent to pick it up, my heart pounding. The key looked old, its edges worn smooth from years of handling.

I looked around the room until I spotted a small indent in the wall behind the desk. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it. I ran my hand along the surface and found a hidden safe built into the wall.

My hands shook as I slid the key into the lock.

The safe opened with a soft click, releasing the musty smell of mothballs—like opening a time capsule.

What I found inside made me cry instantly.

Mom's paintings were stacked on top—the ones I thought Dad had thrown away after she died. He'd kept them all this time. Little notes were attached in Dad's careful handwriting: "Emma's 3rd birthday," "First swimming lesson," "Swinging in the park"...

He'd remembered everything.

Below were VHS tapes labeled "Emma's First Birthday," "Amusement Park," "Beach Vacation," their cases yellowed with age. I couldn't believe Dad had saved all of this.

But then I saw three letters at the bottom. The envelopes were yellowed, addressed to "Grace" from "Nathan." Still sealed, like Dad never found the courage to give them to her.

I picked up the second letter with shaking hands, imagining Dad writing alone in the middle of the night. When I tore it open, I could see dried tear stains on the paper, water marks that had wrinkled the surface.

Dad's handwriting looked nothing like his usual neat script—it was messy, desperate:

"Grace, I was in France when you died. I only found out later that Victoria deleted your call logs. She told me you never called me..."

The letter slipped from my hands.

Victoria. That bitch.

After thirteen years, I finally knew the truth. Mom had tried to reach Dad before she died, but Victoria deleted the call records. She let Dad think Mom had chosen to die alone.

I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. All these years, Dad had been carrying this pain and guilt too.

But I was confused. If Dad loved Mom this much, then why did he...

I wiped my eyes and kept searching, finding Mom's diary at the bottom. The cover was faded pink, worn soft with age.

I flipped to the last entry from 2008:

"Emma had a fever tonight. Nathan changed her diapers and stayed up all night watching her. In the morning, he brushed my hair back and said 'thank you for everything.' I haven't seen that tenderness in his eyes for so long. Maybe this is enough. Our love isn't a fairy tale, but in these quiet moments, I can feel his heart."

I finally understood. Dad hadn't failed to love Mom—he just loved her quietly, too late. And Mom had been waiting, accepting this man who couldn't say what he felt.

I pulled out the VHS tape labeled "Emma's 3rd Birthday" and fed it into the old VCR with trembling hands. The screen flickered to life.

There I was, riding on Mom's shoulders, laughing like crazy. Mom turned to smile at the camera, warm as sunshine. I could almost smell her perfume through the screen, unlocking memories I'd buried for years.

Suddenly I remembered that rainy night—Mom's cold hands, her pale face, me screaming until my throat was raw...

"Mommy! Mommy!" Five-year-old me had cried, but no one came.

The tape jammed, freezing on Mom mid-blink, her eyes looking right at me like she was trying to tell me something. I started hearing rain in my head—that sound I'd tried so hard to forget.

I reached for the VCR and accidentally bumped a loose wooden panel inside the safe. It fell away, revealing a hidden compartment.

Inside was Mom's old cell phone—the one she'd had before she died.

The screen was cracked, but it still turned on. I pressed the power button with shaking fingers and scrolled to the call log.

The last entry made my blood freeze:

"Nathan (03/12/2012 10:15 PM)"

The night Mom died.