Inside the box were old letters and photos.
Rebecca, younger… smiling in a way we had never seen.
Always with the same man.
Her past. Her memories. Her love.
“You called his memories trash,” my son said quietly. “Should I treat yours the same way?”
Rebecca rushed forward.
He stepped back.
“For months, I knew about this,” he added. “I didn’t say anything because I thought people hold onto things for a reason.”
Then he pointed toward the driveway.
“Go get every single bunny. All of them. Clean them. Fix the notes.”
