That is perhaps the final joke of the whole morning, and the kindest one: that the mysterious hobby I nearly called the police over is now one of the quiet centers of my own life, a living culture older than my marriage, handed to me by the very woman I had accused, bubbling away in the sun on my windowsill as proof that I got the whole story completely, wonderfully wrong.

I think about that morning often.

I think about how completely certain I was, how much evidence I assembled, how I built an entire dark story out of a notebook and a map and a row of little bags, all because, long ago, a locked door had taught a frightened girl that secrets are always wounds.

But some secrets are not wounds at all.

Some secrets are just a gentle woman’s harmless joy, hidden away out of the small human fear of being laughed at, waiting for someone kind enough to open the door and say: show me.