Chapter 2 - The Threshold of History
Maya froze. Her hand remained on the brass doorknob, her fingers locked in place as she stared down at my hand resting against the wood.
"Diane?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and guarded hope.
"Don't close it, Maya," I said, my voice surprisingly steady even as my pulse raced in my throat. I pushed the door open another couple of inches, meeting her tear-bright eyes directly. "You said Buster comes back every Sunday. How long has he been going to the cemetery?"
Maya blinked, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction, though her guard remained firmly up. "About six months. Maybe a little longer. At first, I thought he was just chasing rabbits in the park nearby. But then he’d come back smelling faintly of freshly cut grass and damp earth. On Sundays, he always scratches at the door right around nine in the morning, right when you usually get there."
"How did he know where it was?" I asked, stepping closer to the threshold, the chill of the dead-end street wrapping around my coat. "Caleb’s grave is nearly three miles from here. Through heavy traffic, across the old bridge. A dog doesn't just wander into a cemetery by accident."
Maya looked down at the wooden floorboards, a shadow crossing her face. She didn't answer right away. She walked back into the dim living room, leaving the door wide open. It wasn't an invitation to leave; it was an unspoken invitation to step inside.
I hesitated for a heartbeat, then crossed the threshold.
The house was small, remarkably tidy despite its worn-down exterior. The floors were bare wood, scrubbed clean, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. On the kitchen counter, a small radio played a low, classical station. It was a stark contrast to the sprawling, silent suburban home I shared with my husband, Mark—a house that felt more like a mausoleum every day since Caleb’s name stopped being spoken over breakfast.
Maya walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up a kettle, and set it down with a soft click. She didn't look at me as she spoke.
"Caleb used to run through these old neighborhood blocks when we were in high school," she said softly. "Before we had cars, before everything got complicated. He knew every shortcut, every alley, every fence line between the west side and the park. Buster... Buster looks a lot like an old stray Caleb used to feed behind the diner where I worked part-time."
I stood by the small coffee table, my eyes locked on the framed photograph of my son. In the picture, Caleb was laughing, caught mid-sentence with his head thrown back. It was a face I hadn't seen in motion for three years.
"You kept his picture here," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I didn't have many," Maya replied, turning around, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Your husband... Mark made it very clear after the funeral that any pictures, clothes, or personal effects belonging to Caleb at my place were to be returned. He sent a lawyer’s letter, Diane. Formal, cold, wrapped in legal threats about 'alienation of estate' or whatever nonsense they came up with to make sure I had zero claim to anything he left behind."
A cold spike of shock went through me. "Mark sent a lawyer to you?"
Maya gave a dry, humorless laugh that held no malice, only profound exhaustion. "You didn't know? Mark told you I wanted to sell Caleb’s belongings online for quick cash, didn't he? That’s why you wouldn’t talk to me at the reception."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. I remembered Mark’s exact words on the drive home from the cemetery three years ago: “Maya’s already asking for his things, Diane. She’s trying to stake a claim before the estate is even settled. We have to cut her off completely for your own sanity.”
In my fog of grief, I had swallowed it whole. I had needed a villain, someone to blame for the jagged edges of my pain, and Mark had handed me one wrapped in legal stationery.
"No," I whispered, the floor feeling unsteady beneath my feet. "Mark told me you didn't want anything to do with our side of the family. He said you refused his calls."
Maya stared at me, her expression shifting from defensive caution to something far more complex—a terrifying, quiet understanding.
May you like
"Diane," she said, her voice dropping to a somber, devastating register. "Mark didn't protect you from me. He protected himself from what I knew about Caleb in the weeks leading up to the accident."
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