I believed him. When you’re married that long, you trade certain curiosities for peace. You stop poking at small mysteries because you trust the man holding the key.
But once Thomas was gone, I couldn’t ignore that locked door any longer.
I believed him.
After the funeral, I sorted through his sweaters and folded his Sunday shirts.
Every time I walked toward the bedroom, that locked door at the end of the hall seemed to grow heavier.
At first, I told myself it was disrespectful to look. Whatever he kept in there belonged to him, and if he wanted it buried, I should let it stay dead.
But I couldn’t.
On the tenth day of being a widow, I picked up the phone and called a locksmith.
That locked door at the end of the hall seemed to grow heavier.
When the locksmith arrived, a young man with a heavy tool belt and a bored expression, I stood back and watched.
The metallic click of the lock finally giving way echoed through the narrow hall.
The door creaked as it swung open. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust and yellowing paper.
No skeletons were hanging from hooks. There were just stacks of boxes and a heavy metal strongbox sitting on a shelf.
The metallic click of the lock finally giving way echoed through the narrow hall.
“You want me to pop this one too?” the locksmith asked, pointing at the strongbox.
“Please.”
