Because I didn’t really know what family was supposed to feel like.
But whatever existed between me and Mrs. Holloway felt close.
Then came the morning I found her.
I let myself inside using the spare key because she hadn’t answered the phone.
The television was still on.
Cold tea sat untouched beside her chair.
And she was gone.
I knew instantly before I even touched her hand.
But I still called her name anyway.
I dropped beside her chair and cried harder than I had in years.
The funeral passed like a blur.
I stood near the back feeling strangely out of place, like my grief somehow required permission.
Then came the will reading.
The humiliation.
The crushing realization that maybe I had misunderstood everything between us.
The next morning, someone knocked hard on my apartment door.
Mrs. Holloway’s lawyer stood outside holding an old metal lunchbox.
“She left additional instructions,” he said quietly. “For you.”
Inside sat an envelope with my name written in shaky handwriting and a small silver key.
My hands started trembling before I even opened the letter.
