As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the house, the two teenage siblings, Alex and Emma, found themselves at their parents’ house for a family dinner. Little did they know that this evening would take an unexpected turn.

While exploring the house, Alex and Emma stumbled upon a hidden closet in their parents’ bedroom. Curiosity got the best of them, and they couldn’t resist peeking inside. What they discovered left them mortified and struggling to stifle their laughter.

Inside the closet was a box filled with an assortment of peculiar items. Whips, handcuffs, and various other accessories that were definitely not what they had expected to find. Their eyes widened in disbelief, and they exchanged a look of sheer horror.

Their faces flushed with embarrassment, Alex and Emma quickly closed the closet door, hoping to erase the image from their minds. They couldn’t help but wonder what their parents were into and how they could face them at dinner without bursting into laughter or turning beet red.

As the family gathered around the dinner table, the teens struggled to keep a straight face. Every glance exchanged between them was a silent reminder of the bizarre discovery they had made. They tried to focus on the conversation, but their minds kept drifting back to the fetish box.

Their parents, oblivious to the secret they had stumbled upon, engaged in lighthearted banter and shared stories from their day. Alex and Emma couldn’t help but steal a few glances at their parents, their minds still filled with images of the unexpected contents of the closet.

The dinner continued, and as the evening progressed, the tension gradually eased. Laughter filled the air, and the awkwardness began to dissipate. Alex and Emma realized that their parents were just like any other couple, with their own quirks and interests.

As the night came to a close, Alex and Emma found themselves reflecting on the experience. Yes, it had been embarrassing and awkward, but it had also brought them closer as a family. They realized that everyone has their own secrets and interests, and it was important to approach these discoveries with understanding and acceptance.

The siblings shared a knowing smile, silently acknowledging the newfound bond they had formed. They would always remember this dinner as the night they stumbled upon their parents’ fetish box, a moment that had initially mortified them but ultimately brought them closer together.

And as they bid their parents goodnight, Alex and Emma couldn’t help but chuckle to themselves, knowing that they would forever have a secret that would remain locked away in the depths of that closet.

Once upon a time, in the quaint village of Willowbrook, a group of friends gathered at the elegant Victorian mansion of their enigmatic host, Mr. Archibald. It was a stormy evening, with rain pelting against the windows, setting the perfect atmosphere for a night of mystery and intrigue. The friends had come together for their weekly tradition of playing Cluedo, a thrilling board game that challenged their deductive skills.

As the guests settled around the grand oak table in the mansion's opulent drawing room, Mr. Archibald, a charismatic and eccentric man, revealed the scenario for the evening's game. They were to solve the mysterious disappearance of the renowned diamond necklace, "The Willowbrook Jewel," which had gone missing from the village museum earlier that week.

Each player chose a character and assumed their roles. There was the quick-witted detective, Inspector Sinclair, who always seemed to crack the case; Miss Evelyn, the socialite with a penchant for secrets; Professor Atticus, an expert in historical artifacts; Dr. Eleanor, the astute physician; Colonel Winchester, a retired military officer with a sharp eye; and lastly, the mischievous Lady Arabella, known for her love of puzzles.

The game unfolded with the players moving their tokens around the intricately designed board, questioning one another and collecting clues. With each roll of the dice, the mansion came alive with suspense. The players skillfully navigated through rooms like the grand ballroom, the study, and the conservatory, seeking information that would ultimately lead them to the whereabouts of the missing necklace.

As the evening progressed, tensions grew, and alliances shifted. Secrets were whispered, and red herrings were laid out, keeping everyone on their toes. The players meticulously noted every detail, from the cryptic statements made by their fellow participants to the possible murder weapons and suspicious alibis. Each turn brought them closer to the truth.

Hours passed, and just when they thought they had unraveled the mystery, a sudden twist occurred. The lights in the mansion flickered, and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the hallways. Panic ensued as the players rushed to investigate. To their shock, they discovered that the mansion had been infiltrated, and the intruder had taken a valuable artifact from the game itself, a rare artifact worth a fortune.

Now, their mission became twofold—find the Willowbrook Jewel and catch the thief who had disrupted their game. The players used their Cluedo skills and collaborated, pooling their knowledge to decipher the riddles left behind by the cunning intruder. As they traversed the mansion, they unraveled the intricate web of clues, leading them closer to the truth.

With determination and wit, the friends worked together, combining their unique talents and unraveling the mystery step by step. Their efforts paid off when they finally cornered the thief and recovered both the stolen necklace and the missing game artifact. The storm outside had subsided, and as they celebrated their victory, they couldn't help but marvel at the brilliance of their own detective skills.

“Anything you leave I’m throwing away.” Mom said as she left my childhood bedroom. Or what had been my childhood bedroom. It now resembled a storage room of random Knick knacks. But then again Dad had always been a hoarder. I dug through the exercise equipment and garage sale finds. Finally I reached my dresser. I still had a few clothes I hadn’t bothered bringing to college. Some old jewelry. And… My fingers brushed against cracked leather. I froze. No. I told him to throw it away. To burn it. Destroy it. I’d been in such hysterics, I was sure Dad would do it. He had to in order to get me to come back to his house again. Otherwise I would’ve stayed in Mom’s condo. But as I picked up the object, I started to shake. It was the book. Old stained pages. Cracked leather binding. And the symbol I still saw in my nightmares. “Mom!” I ran into Dad’s bedroom where Mom and Aunt Karen were packing up his clothes. Aunt Karen froze when she saw the book. But Mom continued folding. “What is it now?” I gripped the book tighter. There were so many questions. Many of which would send me back into the asylum. “Stop wasting time and spit it out.” Mom said as she shook out a shirt. “Uh.” I looked to Aunt Karen who shook her head. “Do you think the church would want some of Dad’s stuff?” “Put some things aside and we’ll take it over.” “Why don’t you help me Aunt Karen.” I hustled her back to my room and closed the door tight. Then I held up the book. “I thought you said he destroyed this.” “That’s what he told me.” She touched her temple. “Then again he made the same promise when we were kids.” I looked back down at the book, my hands shaking. “There’s no strap anymore. Do you think he…” “That does sound like him. He was never able to let go of that world.” The symbol glinted at me. It was a stylized eye with barbs all around it. The symbol of Pandora. “Do you…” I swallowed. “Do you think this is what killed him?” “He did have knife wounds.” “You and I both know those were too deep for a knife.” Aunt Karen shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. We are not going back.” “We have to make sure they’re all there.” I looked down at the book. “If just one escaped it could mean the end of our world.” “Humanity isn’t so weak.” Aunt Karen said. “We survived when Pandora first opened the box.” “Only because her daughter collected the worst evils in this book.” I looked at it. “And now it’s down to us. We must be sure the book is completed.” “Who says it isn’t?” Aunt Karen grabbed it and brought out her lighter. “Let’s destroy it before it makes anymore trouble for us.” But before the flame could even touch the old leather, the ground began to shake. And a green light exploded through the window. A tiny girl landed on the exercise bike. And we all ducked as an inhuman roar ripped through the air. I glanced at Aunt Karen as the ground stopped shaking. “What was that about the book being completed?” Aunt Karen ignored me and went to help the little girl. A girl I recognized. “Hope?” The girl lifted her green eyes. She looked so tired. But she gave a weak smile. “Hello, Alice.” Hope winced as Aunt Karen helped her to the bed. I knocked away various books and clothes. But Hope didn’t need much room as she’d always been tiny. “What happened?” I asked once she was settled. She looked away from us. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop it. And Hal. Because of me…” “Don’t blame yourself.” Aunt Karen said. “Hal never should’ve gone back.” “But…” I shook my head. “What’s done is done. But now we need to get those pages back into the book.” They both nodded as I grabbed the book off the floor. My hands shook as I opened it up. And then we were all sucked into the first page.

I'm holding one hand over my mouth and staring at what I'm holding in the other hand. In it is an old Polaroid of a woman, who's not my mother, holding me immediately after giving birth and the words "Janine's Birth Mother" written on the bottom.

How long can your eyes stay open before you need to blink? I think I just hit the record. My eyes are dryer than a KFC biscuit and, yet, I can't close them. "Janine's Birth Mom" I whisper as I reverently run my fingers over the picture. It's 16 years old but I still try to hold the Polaroid closer to my face. I want to see her nose, her eyes, her ears, her face. Can I be seen in her?

"What was that, honey?", my mom yelled. I quickly started putting everything back into the secret shoebox, the secret shoebox back into the secret panel behind my mom's shoe rack, the cover back onto the panel, her shoes back on the shelf, and I finish just in time for my mom to show up behind me.

"Did you find that scarf you were looking for?", she asked me. At least, that's what I think she asked me. I can't stop staring at her and the mirror on the wall behind her. All I hear from her are gurgles. My nose, her nose. My eyes, her eyes. My ears, her ears. My face, her face. Not my mother. Not my mom. "Did you find that scarf you were looking for?", she repeated.

"Oh!", I childishly said while slapping my left hand to my forehead. "I forgot that I left it at Kendra's house."

"Okay. Just remember to bring it home.", she said as she left the room with a basketful of dirty laundry. I stared at her as she walked away.

For 16 years, I thought my mom and dad were my mother and father. I thought they'd made me out of love for each other but instead, I was made by people who didn't want me. I was made out of passion or hatred. I wasn't wanted, I was abandoned.

It's been a week since I found out that I'm adopted. My parents have known something is up all week but they've raised me to come to them when I'm ready to talk about it. They've never forced me to open up to them and they're not doing it now. I find their resistance impressive. There's so much trauma in the history of black parenting that's been passed down through the generations since slavery, but my parents made it a goal to break generational curses. They wanted me to view them and home as a safe place. They've been strict but also understanding and forgiving. They never want me to feel like I can't come to them. So, after lugging this huge anchor of knowledge around with me all week, I've decided I can't wait anymore.

I walked into my parents' room, went to their closet, removed the necessary shoes, took off the cover to the secret panel, took the shoebox out of the secret area, and went downstairs to talk to them.

"Mom, Dad", I started.

After telling them about finding the shoebox, they looked at each other and then they both hugged me. "Oh baby", my mom said through her sniffles and tears. She kneeled down to my eye level, put her hands on my cheeks, stared me in the eyes, and continued.

"You were made in love. Your birth mother was my sister, the one I don't talk about. Less than a month after you were born, she and her boyfriend were in a car accident and they died. They were both 18 years old fresh out of high school but baby, I promise you were made in love and you were wanted. My sister wanted nothing more than to be your mother and to raise you. She wanted to watch you grow into the beautiful young woman you are today. She wanted to watch your milestones and talk to you about boys and cook you nutritious meals on a daily basis. She was a bibliophile and she was excited to share her love of books with you. The first time I saw you pick up a chapter book well ahead of your years at a grocery store, my eyes filled with tears because you get your love of reading and your intelligence from your mom. I'm sorry we never told you. We just didn't want to give you stories of them when you can't make your own memories with them. You were wanted by them and you were wanted by us."

"We love you baby", my dad said as he came around to the other side to hug me.

In a way, I still feel abandoned. Death is a type of abandonment, right? Well, I may have been abandoned, but I was loved and I was wanted and right now that's all I need.

Silently, “Breaking News” plasters the muted 1998 monitor as Martha opens up a vacant cabinet. She studies the only mug on the shelf that somehow made it through six moves with the Coopers. It’s unbreakable bond and determination made her feel connected to the piece of ceramic.

She grabs the tepid pot of Maxwell house and fills her cup. The kitchen smells of burnt coffee and the checkered linoleum was lifting, but at least the hot plate worked at this one. That was already an improvement to their last subsidized housing in South Shore where she and John lived.

Martha shuttered at his name. She runs her fingers through her hair to feel the scar her husband left behind.

“Maybe that’s why I only have one mug left.” Martha half heartedly smiled down at her Joe trying to avoid the shortness of her breath.

Turning to pull out the aged wooden chair, the last glass plummets to the floor while her eyes are glued to the screen.

Live video plays. In blood red were the words “Active Shooter at Elm High School.” Eddie’s school.

It felt like Martha just wrapped her sons PB&J in plastic before their argument over his plea to skip school due to unfinished homework. She insisted that there was time on the bus as she zipped his backpack and sent him to the sidewalk. Guilt as a mom overwhelmed her but the diner had her working the graveyard shift and he broke his promise. He had to deal with the consequences.

Regretting his request to miss a Monday, she needed to hear that her son was safe. Earlier in the summer Eddie begged for a cell phone, but Martha cleverly enforced a spontaneous rule to make him wait until he was 15. That could buy her seven months to save towards Walmarts cheapest option.

She desperately searched for her chevys keys. It was only a one bedroom apartment, but the adrenaline clogged her memory of where she tossed them last.

She threw her purse to the stained carpet in the living room and dropped to her knees. Tears flooded her cheeks in a constant river but that didn’t hurt her hunt.

Sweat starts to seep through her Goodwill Tea Green button up as she dug through her bag. Nothing. Martha’s bloodshot brown eyes frantically scanned the 600 square foot apartment and stops at the sight of the striped sofa.

She plunged her hands between the cushions, while her fingers spread hopeful to feel the rigid side of a key. Her pinky touches something cold. Martha flips the dusty pillow and gapes at the shell of her couch. An empty belt holster of a gun she never knew took residence in her home.

As I stepped onto the bus after the last day of school, several thoughts and emotions swirled within. I started my high school career kicking and screaming, disconnected from the promise a good education threatened to unleash. Four years later, I didn’t want for it to end.

After moving to four school districts in three different states, all before the sixth grade, each of the placement and IQ tests drew the same conclusion. I was academically lazy. I floated along but never lived up to my true potential. High school exacerbated the issue.

After graduating from an eighth grade class with eighty two students to a freshman class of over seven hundred, I felt like a lost piece of plankton set adrift in an ocean of academia. It didn’t help that I was painfully shy. Treading water had always worked in the past, at least enough to earn passing grades, so I continued with the same lackluster effort. By the end of the school year, I was a few percentage points from having to repeat freshman year.

Sophomore year felt like a clean slate and it was to a certain extent. The bigger issue was that the foundation of knowledge learned the previous year was shaky at best. It made the second round of math and language arts a lot more difficult. I scraped by with tutors and help from some of the teachers. For a few of my classes, whether or not I passed came down to how well I did on the final. Two weeks after school ended, long before report cards were issued, my Spanish II teacher called to give me the good news. She knew how hard I had worked and didn’t want me waiting in limbo.

Each successive year, I did a little better and earned a little more confidence. After almost failing freshman year, I earned solid C’s as a sophomore. Junior year saw B’s or better with straight A’s throughout senior year. It took four years but I finally achieved the Dean’s List.

During that final bus ride home, I thought about everything that had taken place over the last several years. There was one lesson learned that was far more important than any grade ever achieved.

Regardless whether it was a passing grade or any challenge encountered in life, all I had to do was focus my mind on succeeding. My successes or failures would not be defined by anyone other than myself. As long as I put my mind to it then failure wasn’t an option. I would succeed.

I didn’t know it at the time but my entire life became based upon that mantra. Any time a goal needed to be set, I’d place it somewhere beyond the grasp of my abilities. It forced me to push myself in ways never dreamed possible. To this day, I’ve hit every goal ever established since the tenth grade.

It is why I still wear my high school ring. Even though I graduated college with high honors, my high school ring serves as a constant reminder of that invaluable lesson.

Despite all of the self inflicted academic turmoil, my high school memories are cherished. It was the only time in my life that I wasn’t forced to relocate in the middle of the year. During that chunk of time, I matured the most and learned how best to interact with the world around me.

With a smile in my heart, I stepped off the school bus. When college started in the Fall, I only had a thirty minute commute. I planned on living in that school district forever and didn’t mind the drive at all. Unfortunately, my parents had other plans. Erected at the foot of the driveway, a sign was posted advertising our house for sale.

I cried myself to sleep that night and many nights afterwards. When the house sold a few months later, I stole the sign from the front yard. It served as one last memory from a neighborhood filled with them.

It’s been over thirty years since that time and I still haven’t forgiven my parents for selling the house. I also haven’t been able to bring myself to drive by it. Somewhere in the attic of my house, though, is the stolen “sold” sign. Unlike my childhood home, the memories and collectibles from my youth will never be put up for sale.

Another family party, this time celebrating my 36th birthday. It’s a sunny day and the children will have a wonderful time playing in the warm weather, well all except for our newborn, Layla, that is. She much prefers the shade. It is June 9th and I, Ellie Cordell, am entering the second half of my thirties. God, when did I get this old? Does the general population consider this old? I’m not really sure how to feel. My husband, David, is driving us to my parent’s home where my dad will no doubt be wearing his “Don’t kiss the cook, I’m happily married” apron. My brother, Nick, is on the way with his wife and two children as well. I know their kids can’t wait to meet Layla.

Meanwhile, as Ellie’s mother and father prepared for the arrival of their children and grandchildren, they were in their master bedroom having an argument. The same argument they have had on repeat for many years. Ellie’s mother, Margaret, held the adoption papers in her hand, begging her husband, Stephen, to let her reveal the truth. The truth was that when they were first married they moved far far away from their families, to which they had never been particularly close. Growing up they had both felt quite different from their families and lonely in their upbringing. They vowed to each other their need to prevent another child from experiencing such loneliness. Eventually the perfect pregnant single mother came along, she even looked as though she could have been born of Stephen and Margaret. She couldn’t keep the baby for one reason or another, and Margaret was filled with joy to love the baby for the rest of its life. When they received the news the baby boy was waiting for them at the hospital, tears filled Margaret’s eyes and Stephen immediately grabbed his keys. They named him Nick, swiftly completed the adoption legalities, and never wanting him to experience loneliness they once had, decided not to reveal the adoption during his childhood. Then they became pregnant with Ellie shortly after and it somehow felt unfair to tell him the truth of where he came from. They loved him as their own anyways, but now he was an adult and Margaret felt he could appreciate the love they bestowed on him in place of the family who could not keep him.

Stephen was once again winning the argument stating, “there is no need to turn our family’s world upside down,” slamming the door behind him as he left the room. Exasperated, Margaret sat on the bed with her head in her hands. Hoping to resume the discussion before the children arrived, she shoved the papers in the pocket of her coat hanging in their closet and also left the room.

We arrived to my parents house and David grabbed the hands of the older children to walk them to the backyard as I carried Layla. We reached the backyard, and there stood my dad grilling with his infamous apron. My brother and his wife had arrived also, all of the children were so happy together. It reminded me of the summer days I spent here with my brother, playing until mom called us in for dinner. My reminiscing was quickly interrupted by Layla, crying to be breastfed. Mom ushered us upstairs for some privacy.

We snuggled onto their bed. Layla seemed quite content, she was so sweet from this angle. Until of course she wasn’t, she had slipped off my breast and spit up at the same time. In a frenzy I picked her up and began searching for something to wipe the mess. I noticed the closet door open with my mother’s jacket resting on it’s hanger, hoping she may have some napkins in her pocket. Blindly, I reached in and pulled out the contents. Realizing it was folded up papers, I quickly tossed it aside and jogged to the bathroom. After getting cleaned up, Layla was ready to rest. Laying on the bed with her, I remembered the papers as she drifted off to sleep. I grabbed them from the end of the bed, nosily I unfolded them.

My draw dropped as I felt my whole life shifting. Or rather, my brother’s life. How could this be? We were practically identical twins! I pondered what to do with this new information, scooping up Layla and holding her close. We rejoined the family with the papers still strewn across the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding the photo by the corner, as if it’s a bloodied rag. “Can you repeat that?”

“Oh you heard me,” his mom says, rolling her eyes and continuing to fold the laundry, like a fucking psycho. “Your father had a family, awhile ago.” She waves her hand, like she’s talking about the weather being too hot, too cold, and not that his father had a secret family he’d never spoken to him about.

“Awhile ago? Like how long?” He looks at the picture again and points. “That’s my fucking Walkman. She has a fucking Walkman—mom, who the fuck are these people?!”

She levels him with her best No-Foul-Language look, but if there was ever a time to indulge, he’s thinking it’s now.

“I cannot believe dad has a second family. Mom. MOM. Mom this is so not normal,” he lies on the bed staring at the popcorn ceiling. He’s officially pissed, because he’s been telling them to clean it off for years, but dad always said they could never afford it. Afford a second family though? That’s apparently within the budget.

“Yes well, he doesn’t exactly like talking about it. You know how your father is.”

He looks at his mother like she has twelve heads, and none of them have brains.

“Are you like, fine with this? I mean—mom, oh my god.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“MOM. I think we’re beyond that.”

She’s about to protest, but he shoots up from the bed and shoves the photo in front of her face. “Mother. I have a half sister, and I didn’t even know about it. Literally this is the most insane thing that has ever happened to me and you are brushing. Me. Off. What am I supposed to do with this information?”

She shrugs. “Nothing. It’s not like life is going to change.” She presses his folded shirts into his hands and begins folding the underwear. Maybe that was the first sign of psychosis, he thinks. Folding underwear, who does that? Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.

She’s turned away from him, effectively shutting down the conversation, so he finally takes the hint and turns to leave.

Hand on the doorknob, he turns one last time to glare over his shoulder at his mother. “You know, some therapist is going to make SO much money off of me someday.”

“That’s fine,” plopping a pair of underwear on the pile with enough force to topple it. “Just don’t post it on social media. No reason we need to air our dirty laundry.”

He blinks.

He wonders if he has a chance in hell at being normal.

Even drenched in the warmth of the evening sunset, Sydney felt a chill. The wind was whipping off the water and settled beneath her cardigan. Holding her glass in one hand, she swiped the crocheted blanket from the back of the worn couch and draped it around her shoulders.

“Fuck,” she muttered as the Chardonnay splashed over the rim onto her skirt.

Why didn’t her mother put a table out here? She dabbed her skirt with the lower corner of the blanket. Better the old blanket than her designer skirt.

Sighing, she looked out over the spray of cotton candy pink and creamsicle orange that had splashed in a sensational sunset over the Puget Sound. The chattering of birds melded with the sounds of her mother tittering in the kitchen, and Brian’s low tenor in answer.

Brian. She swigged her Chardonnay and swirled it lazily, staring into the liquid sunshine like it could give her answers. As if the golden liquid could solve Brian for her.

Brian, who she had dated for 5 years. Brian, who had first visited the lakehouse when they were doe-eyed and newly minted. Brian, who her parents orbited around like he was a saint to be followed. Brian, who’s gingerbread eyes had captured her breath at the dicey, Christmas themed karaoke bar when he slid her ale across the counter with a wink. Brian, who casually referred to them as “we”. Brian, who she no longer loved.

Cotton candy faded into periwinkle blue as Sydney stared out over the calm water. Fingering the velvet box tucked into her cardigans pocket, she loosed a breath.

She didn’t mean to find the diamond! She really, really, didn’t.

Fresh off her morning run, Sydney had peeled off her sports bra and felt a sting on her shoulder. Turning in front of the round mirror that reflected back the evergreens that surrounded the lakehouse, she spotted the angry red bump and cursed herself silently for foregoing the bug spray.

Sydney lugged herself downstairs and inhaled deep as the scent of fresh roasted coffee and cinnamon buns wafted from the kitchen.

“Are you ready for my famous buns?” Her father had asked with a twinkle in his eye. He was standing guard at the oven, as if any sudden movement would make the rolls grow legs and run off.

“You know that joke actually does get old,” Syd said, but kissed him on the cheek.

“I got stung or bitten or otherwise hunted,” she complained, turning to show him.

“That’s a honker!” Her father proclaimed as she saddled up to the island next to her mother, who was still sporting her fluffy blue terry robe.

Her mother had sipped her coffee, eyeing Syd over the mug.

“Even before dawn, the bugs around the water are out with a vengeance, and you damn well know that,” her mother chided lovingly. “But we have some good lotion in the guest room bathroom for our less nature inclined guests,” she patted Syd’s arm, trying to keep the smile off her face.

“Oh and I suppose I am less nature inclined because I chose to live in a city, is that right?” Syd replied as she dragged her mother’s mug towards her.

Swatting her hand away, and returning the mug to her lips, her mother held her eye contact and didn’t deign a response. Evelyn Case only dispensed teasing, she was never the receiver.

Standing with a sigh, Syd made her way up the wooden staircase of the lakehouse back to the bathroom. She rifled through the medicine cabinet but didn’t see any creams, just pill containers and an old toothpaste.

Under the sink she found a worn leather toiletry bag. Hauling it onto the tiled sink counter, Syd unzipped it. In between an electric toothbrush and single blade razor, the velvet box stared up at her.

As if it was just part of an assortment of normal men’s grooming items, just nestled there.

She promptly zipped it back up.

And then unzipped it.

She knew those single blade razors. Syd delicately removed the box from the toiletry bag and sank down. She sat with her back to the vanity and turned the soft, black velvet in her hands. It was none of her business.

Except it was.

She hadn’t hinted to Brian that she was expecting a ring. She hadn’t hinted that she was thoroughly not in love with him anymore, either.

In a daze she tucked it into her pocket. And now she sat, with her Chardonnay that was most certainly not giving her answers, and her engagement ring in her cardigan pocket.

“Fuck,” she murmured again.

It was the middle of December, classes had just ended, and I was ready to go home for the holidays. I was originally going to wait a week until I came back but I decided to give a little surprise to my parents. The wind was blowing as I reached the front door. No lights, so I quickly brought my suitcase in and set it down. “Hello?” No answer. “Mom? Dad?” Nothing. I walked into the kitchen. Dirty dishes at the sink, mail and paper on the counter. Then I saw an open file on the table. Divorce Papers. Why were the divorce papers there? And who do they belong to? Surely not my parents? They loved each other. At least it looked like they did when I was there. How could they have not told me sooner? What was I going to do? They have been together for nearly 20 years! What changed? Did I have something to do with it? Did I cause them to riffed? Tears fell from my eyes.