The yard was quiet.

There were no engines, no strangers carrying furniture, no footsteps rushing up the stairs to claim a room.

The brass key Richard had given me rested on the table beside my cup.

I picked it up and turned it over.

For years, I’d believed that one day my parents might come back and explain why they left.

As a child, I imagined a reason so enormous that it would make the abandonment understandable.

As a teenager, I stopped asking because each unanswered birthday hurt too much.