Of course, I said yes.
We built a life together.
A home that was always full. Two children, Jane and Jake, who grew up faster than I was ready for. Later, grandchildren filled the quiet spaces we didn’t even realize had formed.
When you’ve known someone that long, they become part of how you understand the world—like breathing, like time itself. You don’t question it. You don’t imagine life without them.
Until one day, you have to.
This past winter, Martin passed away.
I sat beside him at the end, holding his hand, trying to think of something meaningful to say. But when the moment came, all I managed was, “I’m right here.”
And then… he was gone.
The loss was unbearable. The house no longer felt like mine. At first, neighbors, friends, and family came by often. But slowly, they returned to their own lives. I tried to do the same—for the sake of my children and grandchildren.
But Martin’s office remained untouched.
His chair stayed exactly where he left it. His glasses still rested on the desk. Even his coffee mug sat waiting, as if he might walk back in at any moment. I told myself I’d deal with it later.
But “later” kept slipping further away.
Yesterday, Jane came over. She didn’t ask—she never does.
“Mom,” she said, setting her bag down. “I’m going to help you pack Dad’s things today.”
“I’m not ready.”
She gave me that look—the one she inherited from Martin.
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
That was enough.
For the first time in months, I went into Martin’s office.
I stayed near the doorway at first, while Jane quietly sorted through shelves and papers. Slowly, I rolled toward the desk.
That’s when I noticed something strange.
One drawer wouldn’t open.
I pulled again. Still nothing.
“Jane,” I said, “did you know about this?”
“About what?”
“This drawer. It’s locked.”
