When the base finally came loose, a rolled bundle of cash dropped straight into the sink.
Not hundreds.
Twenties and fifties, folded tight with a yellow rubber band around them like somebody had hidden them fast and never came back for them.
I just stood there staring while water from the faucet kept running over my hands.
There was something else wedged deeper inside too. A small key taped to the inner wall with brittle old masking tape.
I remember peeling it loose thinking maybe it belonged to some little lockbox Mom forgot about years ago.
The next morning I drove back to her house because suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about the scratches around that base. Fresh scratches. My sister had cleaned out every room in that place like she was hunting for buried gold, and somehow she still handed me the one thing with actual cash hidden inside it.
The house hadn’t sold yet. My sister was there meeting an estate guy in the driveway.
I asked her if Mom ever used the teapot for anything besides tea.
The color drained out of her face so fast it honestly scared me a little.
Not dramatic. Just immediate.
She asked where the teapot was now.
That was the first moment since the funeral she stopped acting confident.
I said, “Why?”
And she snapped back way too quickly, saying Mom got “confused” near the end and hid things everywhere.
Then she asked how much I found.
Not if I found something.
How much.
I didn’t answer.
That night I kept turning the little key over in my hand until I finally recognized the faded logo stamped into it.
The downtown bank Mom used for forty years.
The same bank my sister swore she’d already emptied and closed three days after the funeral.