I held the keys. “Not sure yet, sweetie.”
I couldn’t sleep, wrestling with what to do. The next day was free, so after breakfast and baths, I strapped the twins into their car seats and punched the address into Google Maps.
It took us an hour to a quiet road lined with oak trees. There it was—a small white house with green shutters, like a TV makeover reveal. The grass was overgrown, but the porch looked sturdy. A weathered “For Sale” sign leaned against the fence.
My heart pounded as I parked. “Whose house, Daddy?” Poppy asked.
“Is it ours?” Daisy said.
“Don’t know, angels. Stay here,” I said.
They nodded, busy with their tablets. I walked to the door, feeling like a crook, though I wasn’t. My hands shook as I slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly. I glanced around, half-expecting a neighbor to call the cops.
The door creaked open to a faint lavender and dust smell. The living room was plain but clean—wood floors, brick fireplace, faded curtains. It was furnished—a couch, dining table, even old family photos on the walls.
This wasn’t empty. It was waiting.
I fetched the twins, triple-checking the car was locked, and brought them inside. Every room had furniture. The fridge was full. On the kitchen counter was another note.
