Not love.
Not yet.
Guilt, perhaps.
But guilt was not strong enough to stop me.
We married at the county courthouse six weeks later.
There were no flowers beyond a small bouquet Evelyn carried herself. Her niece, Caroline, attended and watched me with undisguised suspicion. Two of Evelyn’s neighbors served as witnesses.
Afterward, we ate cake in the living room.
That night, Evelyn handed me a small key.
I frowned.
“What’s this?”
“The front door.”
“I already have one.”
She smiled.
“This one is different. Thomas carried it for forty-three years.”
My stomach tightened.
Evelyn placed it in my palm.
“You’re my family now.”
I accepted that key while secretly wondering how many years remained before the entire house would become mine.
That is the truth.
Marriage did not immediately make me kinder.
If anything, security made me worse.
