As I waited for the locksmith to arrive, I went to the attic where memories, both cherished and painful, were stored.
Each box contained fragments of my life—baby shoes, first report cards, family photographs capturing smiles that had become increasingly rare over the years.
It was amid these relics that I found the old family album, dust-covered and forgotten.
The album was a chronicle of our family’s life.
From the early days of marriage, through the births of Daniel and Lisa, to family vacations that once seemed perfect, each page told a story. As I flipped through the album, my heart ached, not just with the betrayal but with the realization that perhaps somewhere along the way, I had lost my children to greed and indifference.
Finally, reaching the last few pages, I found a space where I could leave my note—a final testament to my resolve. I wrote with a steady hand, each word flowing out with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years.
