Barbara finally confessed. Weeks earlier, while helping in the attic, she had felt something hard stitched into the dress lining and guessed it was valuable. She said nothing, planning to take it later. When she told her friend Lorraine, Lorraine said it might be a safe deposit key and urged her to get rid of the boxes, retrieve the key, and claim whatever it opened. Barbara dumped everything, then panicked that the key was gone and raced to the landfill, where security stopped her.

The detective said the key matched a bank branch downtown. Daniel and I went there with the police, and the manager opened a safe deposit box registered in my father’s name. Inside were savings bonds, a deed to a small lake cottage, and a sealed letter addressed to me. My father had hidden it years earlier, writing that he and Mom wanted me to have a safe place whenever I needed it. I read it in the bank’s quiet office and cried, this time with some comfort.

Barbara was charged with theft and attempted fraud, and Lorraine faced charges for planning it. The landfill crew had not yet buried my boxes, and workers found most of them intact, including the albums, the watch, the letters, and the stuffed rabbit. Daniel drove me out, and we carried them back one by one. He apologized for not protecting my things, and I saw how ashamed he was of his mother.

Barbara accepted a plea that required repayment and counseling, and Daniel told her she would not set foot in our home until she apologized properly. Months later, she did, voice small and shaking, and I accepted it from a distance. We spent the summer at the lake cottage. The little rabbit sits on the shelf by the window, and the labeled boxes are back in the attic, now with a lock.