My son Camden has two children, eleven-year-old Willa and seven-year-old Jasper. Their mother, Maribel, died four years ago after a long illness. She had never cared about keeping a perfect house—children’s drawings covered the refrigerator, couch cushions became castles, and Lego cities often remained on the rug overnight.
Six months ago, Camden married Sloane. Slowly, Maribel’s photographs, the children’s artwork, their old blanket, and even their height chart disappeared. Then, during Sloane’s housewarming party, Jasper and Willa brought their old Lego tub downstairs. Sloane took Jasper’s rescue ship from his hands and snapped, “Please take this plastic junk upstairs. You’re completely ruining the aesthetic of my house.” Before I could respond, one of Sloane’s friends accidentally knocked over a table. A hidden wall panel fell open—and behind it sat a faded green metal box that I recognized immediately.
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