When my father passed away, he left me one thing: a rusty, locked toolbox. Days later, my stepmother April showed up with a smile that always meant trouble — and offered me $5,000 if I would throw the box away. I wondered why she’d pay me to get rid of something she claimed was worthless.
April pushed her way inside and insisted the toolbox would “ruin my carpet,” trying to convince me to accept the cash. But something about her eagerness didn’t feel right. She suggested I pick something else to keep and took out a thick envelope — but I declined. Her smile faltered.
The lawyer had said I might have the key, but April insisted he’d lost it years ago. I didn’t believe her. I tried everything — bolt cutters, hammers, even a bobby pin — but the box stayed locked. Then I had an idea: April kept valuables in her jewelry box. So I pretended to go to her house for tea, slipped into her bedroom, and found a key with the same brand as the toolbox lock.
Back home, the key clicked. Inside the toolbox were ordinary tools — screwdrivers, flashlights, hex keys. But underneath the tray was an envelope wrapped in plastic. It contained divorce papers between my dad and my mother Susannah — the woman he’d claimed died when I was two.
When I confronted April, she admitted my father had made her promise not to tell me. He said it was “for my own good.” According to her, my mother struggled with mental illness after I was born and was committed. She ran away.
I searched and found her obituary — she’d died the previous year. At her grave, I met a woman named Tanya, who turned out to be my mother’s sister. She told me my mother had good moments and missed me fiercely.
I had lost my mother but found pieces of her in Tanya — and it all started with that old toolbox my stepmother tried so hard to make disappear.
