Inside the box lay a plain white envelope, a worn silver key on a faded ribbon, and a folded sheet of notebook paper. Brianna’s hands began to shake. She lifted the paper first, and her eyes moved down the page, then stopped. I had written it the night before, in my own handwriting, and the first line read: “My mom always gives in anyway.” Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Across the kitchen, my husband set down his coffee. “Brianna,” I said gently, “keep reading.” She swallowed hard and turned the page. Underneath my words was a short list, and the last item made her breathe in sharply. Outside, a car door slammed in the driveway, and someone began walking toward our front door.