I wanted Ethan to tell me everything.
Right there.
Before he forgot a single detail.
But I could see how frightened he was.
His fingers were curled around the edge of his jacket.
His eyes kept moving between the adults.
He had already spent three days watching everyone around him cry.
Now we were all staring at him.
I hated what that must have felt like.
"Buddy," I said gently, "you said someone came to the house?"
Ethan nodded.
"A man."
"Do you remember when?"
"The night before Mom went to sleep."
My stomach tightened.
I had been home that evening.
I had eaten dinner with Laura.
I had kissed her before bed.
And somehow, a conversation had happened in our own kitchen that I knew nothing about.
"What was he doing there?"
Ethan looked at the floor.
"Talking to Mom."
"About what?"
His voice became very small.
"She said no."
I crouched beside him.
"No to what?"
"I don't know."
He rubbed his nose.
"I was under the table with my cars."
That sounded like Ethan.
He had a habit of arranging his toy cars beneath the kitchen table.
Sometimes I stepped on one while carrying dishes to the sink.
Laura used to complain about it.
Then she would help him put them away.
"What else do you remember?"
"He told her she had to."
Ethan looked up.
"Mom said she wasn't going to."
My throat tightened.
Margaret made a small sound behind me.
I looked over my shoulder.
She had one hand pressed against her chest.
Daniel stepped forward.
"Michael, he's been through a lot."
"I know."
"We need to be careful about making sense of what he's saying."
"I know that, too."
I wasn't angry with Daniel.
Not exactly.
I was frightened that the pieces of our last evening together had been scattered around the house, and only my little boy knew where some of them were.
Dr. Harris came closer.
"Mr. Walker, I think that's enough questions for now."
I looked at him.
He continued quietly.
"If there may be an investigation, it's better for someone trained to speak with children to handle further questions."
I nodded.
He was making sense.
Ethan didn't need me pressing him for details.
He needed me to be his father.
I took both his hands.
"You don't have to tell us anything else right now."
He looked relieved.
"You aren't mad?"
"No."
"Not even if I got something wrong?"
I shook my head.
"Not even then."
He leaned into me.
I held him until his shoulders stopped shaking.
Then he asked something I had no idea how to answer.
"Are they going to take Mom again?"
I could hear Margaret beginning to cry.
I kept my attention on Ethan.
"The doctors still have some things to check."
"Will you stop them?"
"I won't let anyone ignore what we're worried about."
He considered that.
Then he put his head against my shoulder.
I wanted to promise him his mother would come home.
I wanted to promise him nothing bad would ever happen again.
I made neither promise.
I had already learned how quickly life could make a liar out of someone who meant well.
Dr. Harris returned to the examination room.
The waiting room fell quiet.
I sat beside Ethan and watched him loosen his grip on my sleeve.
After a while, he leaned against Margaret.
She began stroking his hair again.
Daniel stood near the window.
Mr. Collins had gone into the hallway.
I looked at the funeral director through the glass.
He was speaking into his phone.
His face was pale.
I wondered what he was telling whoever had called.
The funeral had been interrupted.
My wife's body was undergoing another medical assessment.
And none of us knew what the next hour would bring.
About forty minutes later, a woman entered the waiting room.
She wore a dark blue suit and carried a folder.
She spoke briefly with Dr. Harris.
Then she came toward me.
"Michael Walker?"
"That's me."
"I'm Rebecca Miller."
She introduced herself as an investigator working with the medical authorities.
Her voice was calm.
Not cold.
Not overly sympathetic.
Just careful.
"Can we sit down?"
I looked toward Ethan.
"Will this take long?"
"We can begin with a few questions."
I sat across from her.
She opened her folder.
"First, I'm sorry about your wife."
I nodded.
I had heard those words so often that they barely sounded like words anymore.
Rebecca continued.
"We're reviewing the original medical records and the circumstances surrounding what happened afterward."
"Does that mean someone did something wrong?"
"It means we have concerns that need proper answers."
"That's what everybody keeps telling me."
"I understand it's frustrating."
I stared at her.
"Frustrating isn't the word."
She let that sit between us.
I appreciated that she didn't rush to explain my feelings to me.
"What do you need from me?" I finally asked.
"Anything you remember about Laura's last days."
I leaned back.
There was so much.
And almost nothing.
Laura going to work.
Laura making dinner.
Laura sitting on the couch with Ethan.
Laura telling me we were running low on milk.
The last days of her life had looked painfully ordinary.
"She was tired," I said.
Rebecca wrote something down.
"More than usual?"
"I think so."
"Did she mention feeling unwell?"
"Not seriously. But her brother says she was dizzy."
I explained Daniel's phone call.
The near fall in the kitchen.
The appointment Laura had planned for Monday.
The paperwork she wanted to discuss with me.
Rebecca listened.
Then she asked about medication.
Doctor visits.
Changes in her behavior.
I answered as honestly as I could.
There were questions I couldn't answer.
I had lived beside Laura for years.
Now I was sitting across from a stranger, discovering how much about her final week I didn't know.
Rebecca closed her notebook for a moment.
"I also understand your son mentioned a visitor."
"Yes."
"Do you know who it might have been?"
"No."
"Did you see anyone enter the house?"
"Not that I remember."
"Where were you that evening?"
I thought carefully.
We had eaten dinner together.
Ethan had been playing.
Laura was cleaning up.
I had gone out to the garage to sort supplies I needed the following day.
I remembered moving some boxes.
I remembered searching for a tool.
Then I remembered hearing Laura talking.
I had assumed she was speaking on the phone.
I said as much.
"Did you recognize another voice?" Rebecca asked.
"I'm not sure."
"Male or female?"
"I honestly couldn't tell you."
She nodded.
"That's fine."
I frowned.
"How is that fine?"
"Because I would rather record what you're certain of than have you guess."
I looked at her.
For the first time that afternoon, I felt I might be speaking to someone who understood the difference between getting answers and inventing them.
"Should I ask Ethan if he remembers the man's face?"
"Please don't question him further about it."
She glanced toward him.
"If we need a formal account, we'll arrange for someone qualified to speak with him."
I nodded.
She gave me a contact number.
"If you remember anything else, call me directly."
I put the card in my pocket.
Then she said something I carried with me for months.
"An unusual medical finding doesn't automatically mean anyone committed a crime."
I looked down.
"I understand."
"We have to establish what happened before deciding what it means."
I knew she was right.
Still, part of me wanted a name.
A face.
Someone I could blame.
Grief made certainty attractive.
Even the wrong kind.
Rebecca returned to speak with Dr. Harris.
The afternoon moved slowly.
People came in and out of the examination room.
I watched their expressions.
None told me anything.
One person carried paperwork.
Another brought a piece of equipment.
A telephone rang behind the reception desk.
Every small sound made me look up.
Margaret cried quietly.
Daniel brought us water.
Ethan fell asleep with his head against my arm.
I brushed his hair away from his face.
His eyelashes were still wet.
He looked younger than seven.
I wondered whether he would remember that day when he grew older.
I hoped he wouldn't.
I hoped whatever happened next would make this day fade.
That was another thing I was wrong about.
Near evening, Dr. Harris returned.
The examination was continuing.
Other medical authorities were involved.
The original records would be examined independently.
He couldn't offer a final explanation.
I asked when he would know more.
He said he couldn't give us a reliable date.
I asked whether the findings changed the original conclusion.
He said the review had to be completed before they could answer.
I asked whether someone should have noticed the problem earlier.
He didn't speculate.
By then, I was exhausted.
Not sleepy.
Exhausted in the way that makes even standing upright feel difficult.
Dr. Harris noticed.
"Mr. Walker, you should try to get some rest."
I almost laughed.
Rest.
Our bedroom still smelled like Laura's lotion.
Her glasses were beside the bed.
Her slippers were where she had left them.
And he wanted me to rest.
But Ethan needed to go home.
Margaret could barely keep her eyes open.
Daniel looked as if he hadn't slept either.
So I agreed.
Before leaving, I looked down the hallway one more time.
The examination-room door remained closed.
I wanted to go inside.
I wanted to see Laura.
I wanted to know whether the woman I had kissed goodnight was truly gone.
Instead, I picked up my sleeping son.
He settled against my shoulder.
His shoes knocked softly against my leg as I carried him outside.
The rain had stopped.
Water shone on the pavement beneath the lamps.
The cemetery grounds were dark beyond the parking area.
I stood beside the car for a moment.
Then I opened the back door.
Ethan stirred as I fastened his seat belt.
"Dad?"
"I'm here."
"Where's Mom?"
My hands stopped.
"She's still with the doctors."
He closed his eyes again.
I stayed beside him for a few seconds.
Then I shut the door.
Daniel helped Margaret into her car.
He asked whether I wanted him to follow me home.
I told him I would be all right.
He didn't look convinced.
Neither was I.
I drove carefully.
Every red light seemed to last forever.
The roads were almost empty.
I kept glancing into the rearview mirror.
Ethan slept with his cheek turned toward the window.
He looked like Laura when he slept.
The same straight nose.
The same little line between his eyebrows.
I tried not to cry while driving.
I didn't entirely succeed.
When we reached home, I carried him upstairs.
His bedroom looked exactly as it had before the funeral.
Toy cars along the wall.
A picture of a dinosaur taped beside the window.
A pile of books he had been promising to put away.
I placed him on the bed.
He opened his eyes while I pulled the blanket over him.
"Did they figure it out?"
"Not yet."
He nodded sleepily.
I kissed his forehead.
Then he reached under his pillow.
"Wait."
I sat back down.
"What is it?"
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
It had been creased several times.
"Mom left this."
I stared at it.
"What do you mean?"
"I found it in her drawer."
"When?"
"Before everybody went to the funeral."
I watched him turn it in his hands.
"I wanted to show you."
"Why didn't you?"
"Everybody was upset. Then I forgot."
He held it out.
I took it.
Laura's handwriting was on the outside.
I knew the shape of those letters.
I had seen them on birthday cards.
Shopping lists.
Notes about school meetings.
Little messages she left beside the coffee maker.
The writing was uneven.
It looked hurried.
And it was addressed to me.
I unfolded the paper.
Ethan watched my face.
"Dad?"
I couldn't speak.
The note began with a warning.
If something happened to Laura, she wanted me to read what she had written.
My hand started shaking.
I looked at the date.
Two days before she died.
She had written it while I was still coming home from work and asking what we were having for dinner.
While Ethan was still waiting for her pancakes.
While I still believed our family was safe.
I read the message.
Then I read it again.
Laura said something was wrong.
She didn't know who she could rely on.
If she was unable to explain things herself, I needed to find a blue box hidden behind the things in our bedroom closet.
She wanted me to keep it safe.
Nobody else was supposed to take it.
I looked up.
Ethan was waiting.
"Why did Mom write that?"
I tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
"Was she scared?" he asked.
I looked at the paper.
Then at my son.
I could have told him not to worry.
I could have pretended it was ordinary paperwork.
But he had already spent three days listening to adults tell him things that didn't match what he was experiencing.
I couldn't do that again.
"I think she was worried about something."
"Did she tell you?"
I shook my head.
"No."
Ethan pulled his blanket closer.
"Are you going to look for the box?"
I folded the note carefully.
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
I nodded.
"Tonight."
He held out his hand.
I took it.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he settled back against his pillow.
I stayed until his breathing slowed.
After that, I stood in the hallway with Laura's note in my hand.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs.
A car passed outside.
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.
I walked toward our bedroom.
There was a blue box hidden in our closet.
Laura had wanted me to find it.
I didn't know what was inside.
But for the first time since her death, I had something more than memories and unanswered questions.
I had a direction.
And it had come from my wife.
Source: psndaily.xyz
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Found the Locked Blue Box My Wife Had Hidden, and One Photograph Made Her Final Days Look Completely Different
I Thought We Had Buried My Wife, Until My Seven-Year-Old Son Told Me What He Heard Beside Her Coffin
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