When my father died, all he left me was a locked toolbox. Days later, my stepmother showed up and offered me $5,000 cash if I promised to throw it away. Why would she pay me to get rid of something she claimed was worthless?
I couldn’t shake the feeling that inside was a secret she feared.
A few days after my father’s funeral, my stepmother showed up on my doorstep with that smile that always meant she was up to something.
My mom had died when I was two. April came into the picture when I was ten, and although she’d done all the right things over the years, we’d never really clicked.
“Marla, honey,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her gaze immediately locked onto the rusty blue toolbox near my front door.
Dad had left it to me in his will, and honestly, I couldn’t figure out why.
“That rusty old thing is going to flake all over your carpet, Marla,” April said. “You should get rid of it. I’ll even offer you $5000 to throw it away.”
$5000 for a beat-up toolbox?
Alarm bells rang in my head.
April shrugged. “I feel bad that you didn’t get anything but that old toolbox. And it’s not like you’re going to use it.”
“Yeah, but Dad must’ve left it to me for a reason.”
“Come by tomorrow and pick out something else to keep as a memento,” April continued, reaching into her purse.
She pulled out a thick envelope and held it out to me. “I’ll give you the cash right now to get rid of it.”
I was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I could tell something was off. April seemed awfully keen for me to dump that toolbox, and I couldn’t imagine why.
It was just a toolbox, right?
Unless there was something special about it that I didn’t know about. Some kind of secret locked inside it, perhaps.
“Thanks, April, but I think I’ll hang on to it,” I said with a smile.
April’s smile dropped. For a moment, she looked scared, but then the mask slipped back into place.
“Suit yourself then,” she said, stuffing the envelope back into her purse.
“It’s not like you even have the key.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask about that, actually. The lawyer seemed to think you might have it.”
April shook her head. “Your father lost the key years ago.”
That quick answer, and the shifty look in her eyes, were all I needed to know she was lying.
But why?
What was in that toolbox that April didn’t want me to find?
***
The following day, I tried everything to break that lock. When bolt cutters and a hammer did nothing, I even tried picking it with a bobby pin like they do in the movies. Nothing worked.
I collapsed on my living room floor and stared at the toolbox.
I was convinced April had lied to me about Dad losing the key. And I knew exactly where April kept everything valuable or important: her jewelry box.
The only way I’d get that key was if I went into the lion’s den to steal it. I pulled out my phone and called April.
“April?
Hi, it’s me. I’ve been thinking about your offer, and I might be interested after all. Could I come over to look at Dad’s things to see what I might want to keep instead?”
“Of course!
Why don’t you come over this afternoon? We can have tea.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
That afternoon, I sat down to tea with April and pretended to search through a box of Dad’s things for a memento to replace the toolbox.
“Look, here are the cufflinks that were passed down to him from his father,” April said as she lifted them from the box, “and this is the watch he got as a retirement gift.”
I made appropriate sounds of interest while she showed me each item, but my mind was focused on one thing: getting to that jewelry box.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I said when I’d drunk half my tea.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Of course, honey. You know where it is.”
I walked down the hall toward the bathroom, then slipped into the bedroom. My mouth went dry as I hurried to the dresser.
The jewelry box sat in the top drawer, where it had always been.
Inside, nestled between April’s jewelry and other mementos, I found a key with the same brand name as the padlock on the toolbox. Bingo!
I tucked it into my pocket and hurried back to the living room. April had removed even more items while I was gone and arranged them on the coffee table.
I sat down and looked them over, pretending to consider Dad’s favorite tie, before leaning back with a sigh.
“This is a big decision.
I need more time to think about it.”
I finished my tea and headed home. The minute I stepped through the door, I pulled the stolen key from my pocket and slid it into the lock. It fit perfectly.
The lock clicked open.
I opened the toolbox and stared dumbly at the contents. It was full of tools. Screwdrivers of various types and sizes, a flashlight, and hex keys.
Nothing unusual, and nothing worth $5000, that’s for sure.
“This can’t be it,” I muttered.
I removed the top tray and found a variety of wrenches in there. I dug through them, and there, right at the bottom, was a flat object wrapped in thick plastic. That had to be the secret April didn’t want me to find.
Inside the plastic was an envelope full of papers; divorce papers filed between my father and Susannah, my mother, the woman Dad told me had died when I was a toddler.
I read the papers three times before the truth started to sink in: Dad had lied to me about my mother’s death, and April had known about it.
The reason listed for the divorce made my stomach turn: “Irreconcilable differences caused by instability and unsafe behavior.”
Dad must have wanted me to know the truth after he died, but what did it all mean?
What had really happened between him and my biological mother?
Unfortunately, the only person who might have answers was April.
Minutes later, I drove back to her house without calling. When April opened the door, I held up the key I’d taken from her jewelry box.
Her face went pale. “You opened it.”
“And found the divorce papers.
Dad lied to me my whole life, and you knew about it.”
For the first time since I’d known her, April looked genuinely rattled.
“He made me promise not to tell you. It was for your own good, Marla. That woman, your mother, she wasn’t safe for you to be around.”
April clenched her jaw.
“Simply put, she went nuts after you were born. Your father said there were times she thought you weren’t even real.”
“Like postpartum psychosis?”
I’d read about it somewhere, how new mothers sometimes developed severe mental health issues after giving birth. April shrugged.
“Maybe that’s how it started, but it didn’t go away.
Your father tried to get her help, but she’d stay on medication for a while, then stop, and the whole cycle would repeat itself. By the time you were two, she was disappearing for days at a time. Your father had her admitted to a mental health institution, but she ran away.
That was when he filed for divorce.”
All those years, I’d mourned the woman I didn’t even remember, and she’d been alive all that time?
“But what happened to her after that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” April snapped. “And what does it matter? I’ve been more of a mother to you than that woman ever was.
This is exactly why I didn’t want you to open that toolbox! I knew you’d start asking questions.”
“So it wasn’t just about keeping your promise to Dad,” I said, understanding dawning on me. “You had your own reasons for keeping the truth from me.
Were you afraid I’d go looking for her?”
April pressed her lips into a thin line. I waited for her to say something, anything, but she just stood there, avoiding my eyes like a guilty child.
“I guess that answers my question,” I said eventually, and turned to leave.
“Don’t do this, Marla,” April called after me when I was halfway to my car. “That woman—”
“That woman is still my mother,” I said, cutting her off, “and I want to know what happened to her.”
It took three days of searching online archives, old newspaper records, and public databases, but I finally found her.
It wasn’t good news, however. My world collapsed all over again as I read my mother’s obituary.
She’d died the previous year.
All those years I’d been lied to, and when
