Evelyn was Dad’s older sister.
She had raised him after their parents died and had been the first person to help my mother when she became pregnant. She had owned the property by the lake before Dad inherited it.
The silver key belonged to her.
The map showed a narrow path behind the house leading to a small stone cottage hidden among the trees.
I looked at Dad.
“There’s a cottage?”
“There was.”
“What do you mean, was?”
He took the key from my hand.
“Come with me.”
We walked behind the house, past the shed and the line of bare trees. A path I had never noticed curved toward the lake. At the end stood a small cottage with green shutters and a roof covered in moss.
Dad unlocked the door.
Inside, sunlight fell across a wooden table, two chairs, and walls painted the same soft yellow described in my mother’s letters.
I stood in the doorway.
Dad remained outside.
“She finished this room before you were born,” he said.
I touched the wall.
“She did this?”
“She wanted it to be yours.”
“Why didn’t we live here?”
“She died before we could move in.”
The words were gentle, but they still entered me like cold air.
Dad had never spoken about my mother beyond the few facts I already knew. She had died when I was an infant. He had worked, raised me, and brought me to this house because it was the only place he could afford.
But the cottage had been waiting all along.
On the table lay a small wooden frame.
Inside was a photograph of my mother holding me.
She was young, tired, and smiling directly at the camera.
Beside her stood Dad, his hand resting on her shoulder.
Between them, I was wrapped in a yellow blanket.
I picked up the frame.
