After my parents passed, I inherited their old house. Renovating it felt like a way to stay close to them, so I hired a contractor to redo the kitchen. Yesterday, he called me over, his voice unusually serious.
Behind a section of wall, he’d uncovered a small, dust-covered safe wedged between the studs. I had no idea my parents had ever hidden anything. My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were only three items: two simple rings, worn smooth with age; a ferry ticket to the island we visited every summer; and a sealed letter. The ticket was dated years before I was born. The letter was worse.
“If you have found this, the plan failed.”
It was signed by my aunt—the one who moved abroad long before I was born and vanished from our lives after my parents died.
That evening, I took it to my uncle. The moment he saw her name, he grew quiet. Then he told me the truth.
Before I was born, my mother and aunt dreamed of starting a small business together on that island. The rings weren’t wedding bands—they were a symbol of their partnership. The ferry ticket was for the day they planned to leave together.
Then my mom found out she was pregnant—with me. She chose to stay. My aunt left alone and built a life overseas.
The letter wasn’t hiding a secret. It was a goodbye to a dream two sisters never got to finish.
