“What was something written by Dad doing in our attic?”
“This used to be your grandmother’s house.”
That
was true.
My grandparents had built the house in 1952.
My mother grew up here.
I spent part of my childhood here.
After Mom died, the house eventually became mine.
Brian continued.
“I found the envelope when I was fixing the attic vent.”
“Was it addressed to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
His expression changed.
“I thought it might contain something difficult.”
“So you decided whether I should see it?”
“I didn’t open it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
He sighed.
“I put it back.”
“And then?”
“I kept thinking about it.”
“For six months?”
“Yes.”
He admitted he had gone back into the attic several times.
Sometimes he considered giving me the envelope.
Sometimes he considered opening it first.
Not because he wanted to invade my privacy, he claimed, but because he wanted to know whether the contents would hurt me.
Then
one day, the envelope disappeared.
“You lost it?”
“No. I put it in the same place every time. Then it was gone.”
Brian searched the attic.
Nothing.
That was when he remembered an old family story.
My grandmother had lived through the Depression and never fully trusted banks.
Years earlier, my mother discovered four hundred dollars hidden inside a wall while repairing water damage.
Grandma had apparently used the walls as her emergency savings account.
Brian started wondering whether she had hidden other things.
Or whether my father had.
“So you started opening walls.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“And did you find anything?”
He reached into his jacket.
Then he pulled out two old envelopes held together with a brittle rubber band.
My hands went cold.
“I haven’t opened them,” he said.
He handed them to me.
The rubber band broke the moment I touched
it.
The first envelope had one word written across the front.
Ellen.
My name.
In Dad’s handwriting.
The second said:
Margaret.
My mother.
Also in Dad’s handwriting.
