The Envelope My Father Handed Me At My Sister’s Wedding

in her driveway. She got into my car carrying a canvas grocery bag and smelling like cigarette smoke and rain.

“I shouldn’t be in this,” she said immediately.

“You are already in this if you’re sitting in my car.”

She snorted at that.

Then she pulled out a little brass key on a faded green ribbon and a folded note in my mother’s slanted handwriting.

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