My mother found it by accident.
She wasn’t snooping—at least, not at first. She was looking for paperwork, something ordinary, something that might explain my father’s recent absences and strange behavior. Instead, she opened a drawer she had never touched before and found an object that immediately unsettled her. The moment she saw it, a familiar fear surfaced—one she had carried quietly for years without ever giving it a name.
Nothing had ever been said aloud.
There were no accusations, no reports, no confrontations. Only small observations that never quite fit together: the way my father would retreat into himself when handling his “things,” how his face would drain of color, his posture curling inward, as though he were only half-present—like someone standing there solely because a ritual required it.
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