Chapter 6 - The Unlocking
Clare knew that Harrison kept a master set of keys in his private study on the second floor. Leaving Grace safely in the hallway with her paper animals, Clare walked into Harrison’s study.
She found the heavy iron master key inside a locked desk drawer—the combination to which Harrison had trusted her with a week prior for emergencies. Taking the heavy brass key labeled Sunroom, Clare walked back down the grand staircase.
Together, Clare and Grace stood in front of the double glass doors of the sunroom.
Clare inserted the key into the antique lock. It turned with a heavy, metallic click.
The doors swung open, releasing the faint smell of dried lavender, old dust, and forgotten time. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, illuminating dust motes floating in the still air.
Grace held Clare’s hand tightly as they stepped into the room. It was like stepping back into a frozen moment in time.
They walked over to the small antique wooden desk sitting in the corner. Grace pointed to the top right drawer.
Clare opened the drawer. Inside lay a few dried flower petals, a silver pen, and a small, crumpled piece of lined notebook paper written in a child's messy handwriting.
Clare gently picked up the note and handed it to Grace.
Grace held the yellowing piece of paper with trembling hands. Written on it in red crayon were the words: I hate you Mommy, you are mean.
"I was so mad at her," Grace whispered, fresh tears overflowing. "I left it here right before she collapsed."
"Grace," Clare said softly, sitting on her knees so she was at eye level with the child. "Do you know what your mommy was doing right before she fell sick?"
Grace shook her head.
Clare reached into the drawer, where she noticed a thick leather album lying beneath the desk blotter. She pulled it out. It was Emily Cole’s personal journal, left open to the very last page she had ever written on.
Clare scanned the entry, dated the exact day Emily had passed away. Tears came to Clare’s eyes as she read the lines aloud to Grace:
“Grace left me a little 'angry' note in my desk today because I wouldn't let her have ice cream. She thinks she hid it, but I saw her put it there. She is so fiercely passionate, just like her father. I folded the note inside my journal so I can keep it forever. When she gets older, we will laugh about it together. My sweet, beautiful Grace... I love her more than life itself.”
Grace froze. She stared at the journal, listening to her mother’s last written words.
"She... she wasn't mad at me?" Grace whispered, her voice cracking.
"She loved your note because it came from you," Clare said gently, showing Grace the handwriting in the journal. "She knew it was just a silly game. She wasn't angry, Grace. She loved you with all her heart, right up until her very last breath."
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Grace buried her face in Clare’s lap, and for the first time in two years, she didn't cry in quiet, suppressed fear. She cried out loud—a deep, cleansing release of two years of hidden guilt, sorrow, and pain.
Clare held her tightly, rocking her back and forth in the warm sunlight of the sunroom.
