it up and almost heard her protesting.
“Mommy, you’re breaking the spine.”
I closed it properly.
Then noticed David’s office door across the hallway.
Locked.
That was normal.
He always locked it when traveling.
For years, I’d accepted his reasons.
Confidential client information.
Sensitive business papers.
Privacy.
But grief changes fear.
It strips away the obedience fear once creates.
David had abandoned me while our child was dying. Childcare services
I no longer cared whether he considered entering his office an invasion.
His emergency key was in the drawer beneath the built-in wine refrigerator.
I’d known its location for years.
Never used it.
The office smelled faintly of cedar and his expensive meeting cologne.
His desk was immaculate.
Laptop absent.
Files aligned.
Pens arranged.
Only one personal item remained.
A photograph of Lily.
Not our family.
Just Lily.
For a moment, that almost broke me.
He kept her photograph at
