After My Wife’s Funeral, I Opened The Storage Door She’d Kept Me Out Of For 37 Years. Then My Son

I hesitated.

My hands were shaking again.

Part of me wanted to close the drawer and walk away. Part of me wanted to pretend I had never found this place.

But I could not.

Not anymore.

I opened the journal to the first page.

The handwriting was hers.

I recognized it immediately.

Neat and careful, just like the note she had left with the key.

But this time there were more than two words.

Mighty, it began. If you are reading this, then I am gone. And I am so sorry. I am sorry for keeping this from you. I am sorry for lying to you all these years, but I need you to know the truth. You need to know about Brian.

I stopped reading.

My breath caught in my throat.