“Eat breakfast,” I said.
“That means yes.”
“It means pancakes are getting cold.”
“Grandpa.”
“Ava.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Exactly like Lily.
I pointed toward the table.
“Sit.”
She did, but she kept the key.
I took her plate over.
She poured far too much syrup.
Then placed the key beside her fork.
“What secret door?”
“The reading room.”
She looked down the hallway.
“The room with the pink lamp?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no secret door.”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
I sat across from her.
The simplest answer would have been that the house had once been renovated differently.
That would even have been technically true.
Instead, I said, “Before you were born, that room was hidden behind the wall.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody wanted to keep it hidden.”
“Who?”
I smiled despite myself.
“You ask questions like your mother.”
“Mom says you say that when you don’t want to answer.”
“Your mother talks too much.”
Ava grinned.
Then became serious again.
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“Great-Great-Grandma Evelyn?”
I had forgotten how family math worked for a seven-year-old.
“Yes.”
“Was she hiding treasure?”
“No.”
The next answer sat in my throat.
“She was hiding Uncle Michael.”
Ava frowned.
“Uncle Michael is a person.”
“I know.”
“Why would you hide a person?”
I looked at the little brass key beside the pancakes.
There are some questions whose innocence makes the answer sound even worse.
“Because the adults in our family were very frightened and made some very bad decisions.”
“Was Uncle Michael playing hide-and-seek?”
“No.”
“Did he want to be in there?”
“At first he wanted to hide.”
“And then?”
“No.”
Her face changed.
Children understand cages before they understand coercion.
“So he was locked?”
“For a while.”
Ava looked down at the key.
Then toward the hallway.
“Mom knows?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma Vanessa?”
“Yes.”
“Was she there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Who found him?”
I smiled faintly.
“Your mother.”
“Mom?”
“She was eight.”
Ava’s mouth dropped open.
“Mom found a secret prisoner?”
“That is not how she describes it.”
“How does she describe it?”
“She says she found a hungry uncle.”
Ava stared at me for two seconds.
Then laughed.
I did too.
It was the first time I had ever laughed while a child held that key.
“Did she save him?”
“She helped.”
“How?”
“She gave him food.”
Ava looked at her pancakes.
“What kind?”
I blinked.
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mom must.”
“I’m sure she does.”
Ava picked up the key.
“Can I show her?”
“No.”
She looked wounded.
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to me.”