Chapter 7 - The Unopened Drawer
That evening, after Emma had been put to sleep in her crib and Lily was upstairs reading in her bedroom, Ethan walked into his private study on the ground floor.
The room was quiet, lit only by a warm desk lamp.
On the wooden desk sat a small, carved mahogany box that Ethan had kept locked for six years.
Inside that box were the only physical memories of his daughter, Abigail: a silver baby rattle, a lock of fine golden hair, and her birth certificate.
For six years, opening that box had felt like reaching into a fire.
Ethan sat down in his leather chair. He took a deep breath, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small brass key.
He inserted the key into the mahogany box and turned it.
The lock clicked open.
Ethan lifted the wooden lid.
He looked at the silver rattle. He touched the soft lock of golden hair. But for the first time since that terrible night on the highway, the sight of those items didn't bring a suffocating, crushing agony.
Instead, he felt a quiet, profound peace.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the faded MetroLink card that Lily had handed him six months ago in the hospital waiting room.
He set the plastic card gently inside the mahogany box, right beside Abigail’s silver rattle.
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"Thank you, Claire," Ethan whispered into the quiet room, staring at the date October 14 written in black ink. "You saved me, too."
He closed the wooden lid, locked the box, and set it on the top shelf of his bookcase in the bright sunlight.
