Thomas was open, kind, and predictable. But there was one exception.
At the end of our hallway sat a closet. He kept it locked. Always.
Whenever I asked what was inside there, he’d say, “Just old paperwork, Margaret. Nothing interesting.”
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.
