But another part of me is afraid.
Afraid of confirming my suspicions.
Afraid of learning something I can’t unlearn.
Afraid that once spoken, the truth will change the way I see him forever.
Some doors, once opened, don’t close again.
The Garage Now
I closed the cabinet.
Carefully. Respectfully. As if I were sealing something sacred—or dangerous—back into its place. I locked it, returned the key to its nail, and stood there for a long time afterward, listening to the sound of my own breathing.
The garage looked the same as it had when I arrived.
But I wasn’t.
Every time I pass by that house now, I think about what’s behind that door. About how many garages like it exist all over the world, quietly holding pieces of history no one talks about.
How many secrets are stored not in vaults or safes, but in places so ordinary we never think to look.
I Still Hope I’m Wrong
Even now, writing this, I hope I’m wrong.
I hope there’s an explanation that turns this into something mundane. Something innocent. Something that doesn’t rewrite my understanding of my own family.
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
