I spent Sunday moving my essential belongings out of the house while they were at church, playing the perfect, pious family. I took my clothes, my electronics, and one specific item: a locked, heavy wooden box that had belonged to my late mother. Before she died twelve years ago, she made me promise to keep it safe, but my father had always terrified me into never opening it. “It’s just old tax records and painful memories, Emily. Let the dead rest,” he would say, his eyes unusually wide and frantic.