Her words had once made me feel cared for. That day, they felt strangely controlling.
“Ethan wouldn’t want you to stay buried in grief,” she continued.
“I can’t talk right now.”
“Please listen to me. I’m only saying this because I love you.”
“I have to go.”
I ended the call before she could say anything else.
My hands shook as I picked up a pair of scissors.
Carefully, I opened the old seam along the rabbit’s back.
Yellowed stuffing spilled onto the counter.
Then a folded piece of lined paper and a small metal key fell from inside.
The key was tarnished and tiny—the kind used for a padlock.
I unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was uneven and childish.
But I knew it immediately.
It was Ethan’s.
The message contained only six words:
For Mama. Aunt M said don’t tell.
I sank onto the kitchen stool.
