Chapter 17
Six months later, the locked pantry cabinet no longer had a lock.
I removed it myself.
Grace thought that was unnecessary.
She was probably right.
I did it anyway.
The brass key Annie once hid inside her rabbit now hung from a small ribbon in a shadow box beside my mother’s photograph.
Not as evidence.
As a reminder.
Annie still visited the kitchen before preschool.
She had developed an expensive preference for strawberry pancakes and absolutely no respect for quiet mornings.
My mother would have adored her.
That thought hurt less now.
One morning, Annie climbed onto the chair across from me while Grace prepared coffee.
She stared at my toast.
“You eat butter again.”
“Yes.”
“Not scared?”
I thought about the question.
“A little.”
She frowned.
“You’re a Mafia boss.”
Grace almost dropped the coffee pot.
I laughed.
“Apparently Mafia bosses can still be scared.”
Annie considered this.
“Then why eat it?”
I looked at the plate.
Because avoiding breakfast forever would have let Victoria keep part of the room.
Because my mother had spent her final weeks hiding food.
Because Annie had once believed she needed to save my life before anyone would save hers.
“Because being scared doesn’t always mean stop.”
She nodded as if that made sense.
Then she stole half my toast.
I stared.
“Seriously?”
She grinned.
Grace apologized.
I waved her off.
Let Annie steal toast.
Let her leave crumbs.
Let breakfast become ordinary.
That was victory enough.
Later that afternoon, I moved my mother’s old cup from the pantry into the main cabinet with everything else.
No hidden shelf.
No false bottom.
No locked door.
For years, I thought protecting a family meant making enemies afraid to enter your house.
Annie taught me something harder.
May you like
Sometimes danger is already inside.
And real protection begins when the smallest person in the room knows she can tell you the truth without being punished for it.
