The Unfinished Revelation
All eyes turned to us, thick with awkwardness. I moved to guide him: "Dad! You're drunk! C'mon, I'll take you—" He violently shook me off, leaning forward, finger still aimed at Sara, eyes clouded with agony, nearly roaring: "She's my—" The sentence died. He doubled over violently, hand clamped over his mouth, a horrific retching sound tearing from his throat. The next instant, vomit splattered beside the greasy grill. That crucial word drowned in the sickening noise. Sara's face was chalk-white, lips clenched tight. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Mother's Mystery
Amidst the chaos, I maneuvered the slumped, incoherently muttering Father into the car. "She's my—" The words hooked into my brain, icy and sharp. My mother died young. Her memory was nearly erased at home. Father never spoke of her. I only knew her name was Elizabeth. The locked bottom drawer of his desk was forbidden territory. Childhood inquiries met with instant gloom: "Don't pry." It became the family's buried secret.
The Attic Key
Cleaning his soiled clothes later, a small, tarnished brass key fell from his old army jacket pocket. Its shape was unfamiliar—not the desk key. An idea sparked. While he slept soundly, I crept up to his dusty attic. Amidst old furniture and junk, a thickly dust-laden, paint-peeling wooden chest sat in a corner. An equally verdigrised padlock secured it. Holding my breath, I slid the small brass key in. A gentle turn. Click. The lock opened. My heart hammered against my ribs.
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