“Why did you hide this?”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You put it in a locked cottage.”
“I was afraid the room would become a museum instead of a home.”
I turned toward him.
“And now?”
“Now I think you should decide what it becomes.”
I looked around at the yellow walls, the narrow windows, and the lake shining beyond them.
For years, I had believed I had returned to Dad’s house because he needed me.
I had believed I was stepping into the remains of a life that had already ended.
But the truth was different.
My mother had prepared this room for me before I could speak.
Dad had preserved it through every loss.
Even the blue truck Vanessa and Grant had tried to claim had once carried me toward this place.
Nothing about my return had begun with money.
It had begun with a promise.
I set the photograph back on the table.
“I want to keep it as it is.”
Dad nodded.
“For you?”
“For us.”
His face changed.
“You mean that?”
“I do.”
We spent the afternoon cleaning the cottage.
Dad opened the windows. I swept dust from the floor. We found old books beneath the bed, a cracked music box in the closet, and a small bundle of baby clothes wrapped in tissue paper.
At the back of the closet was a painted wooden sign.
It said NATALIE’S ROOM.
The letters were uneven.
I ran my fingers over them.
