Ernest had bought it in 1998 for a two-week European vacation we ended up canceling because Austin had qualified for a regional soccer tournament and I “needed” to be the team mom.

I set the suitcase on the bed.

Then I went to Ernest’s oak bureau and opened the bottom drawer, pushing aside his wool sweaters that still smelled of cedar.

Beneath the false bottom we’d built years ago was a small, leather-bound box.

I’d known it was there. I’d never opened it. Ernest had handed me the key three months before he passed, his breathing shallow, making me promise not to look until I felt I couldn’t breathe anymore.

I turned the tiny brass key.