The house itself seemed to reflect that story. It smelled faintly of lavender polish and old books. The wooden floors creaked softly with every step. The garden behind the house felt peaceful in a way that made it difficult to imagine anything painful ever happening there.
It was the kind of place where you expected honesty to live.
But secrets had been planted there long before I arrived.
Five years into our marriage, when Carla’s health began to fail, Karl and I moved into the farmhouse with our daughters, Mia and Amelia, so we could take care of her.
It was never a difficult decision.
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