Growing up with just my dad, I always knew my story was different.

While other kids had moms to tuck them in at night and kiss away their tears, it was just Dad and me from day one. He would share stories about my early years with a mixture of pride and sadness, his eyes often clouded with unspoken emotions. “Your mom loved you very much,” he’d say whenever I asked about her, but the pain in his voice hinted at a deeper truth he wasn’t ready to reveal. As I grew older, the curiosity about my mother only intensified. Why did she leave us? Was it something I did? Dad always reassured me it wasn’t my fault, but the absence of answers gnawed at me. Then, on my 21st birthday, everything changed. A small package arrived in the mail with a note that simply read, “For when the time is right – Grandma.” My heart raced as I opened the package. Inside was an old key with an intricate design and a note from my paternal grandmother, whom I hadn’t seen in years. Her handwriting was elegant yet shaky, betraying her age.