Inside was a small metal box. Old. Scratched. The kind that had been opened and closed a thousand times.
My hands hesitated for a second… then I lifted the lid.
Photos.
Dozens of them.
My mom.
Not just the ones I knew — smiling, soft, gentle — but others I had never seen before.
Photos of her arguing with someone.
Photos of her standing outside a building at night.
Photos where she didn’t look happy… she looked scared.
My chest tightened.
Under the photos was a folder.
I opened it.
Police reports.
Not about the accident.
About before the accident.
Disturbance calls.
Witness statements.
One name appearing over and over again.
Michael.
My breath caught.
“No…” I whispered.
For a moment, everything in my head cracked.
The man who raised me… the man who loved me… was in these reports.
I kept reading.
The reports said neighbors had heard arguments. Loud ones. That my mom had been seen crying. That there had been one night where someone almost called the police.
But every report ended the same way:
“No charges filed.”
“No evidence.”
“Case closed.”
My hands were shaking now.
At the bottom of the folder, there was one final document.
Not official.
A letter.
Folded carefully.
My name written on the front.
I froze.
Then slowly… I opened it.
