I turned around and walked into the house, leaving her waiting in the sun. I went to the cedar chest in the bedroom. It was still there, tucked under the quilts, wrapped in plastic. I pulled it out. It was a yellow, frayed thing, smelling of old dust and regret.

I walked back out and held it out to her. She took it, and the moment her fingers touched the fabric, she began to cry. I didn’t reach out to comfort her. I didn’t deserve to. I just watched her hold that piece of the past, and I knew that whatever happened next, the house on Miller Street would never be a place of secrets again.

I sat back down on the step and watched her walk back to her car. I knew she wasn’t coming back. And honestly, looking at the empty spot where the geranium used to sit, I realized I didn’t want her to. I had lived a lie for a lifetime, and the truth had finally washed it all away.