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The house smelled like lavender and wood polish — just like it did when I was a kid. Grandma had been gone three weeks, and I was still trying to process it. She raised me since I was ten. Cleaning out her house felt like peeling back the skin of my childhood, one drawer at a time.
I volunteered to tackle the attic. It was exactly how I remembered: boxes labeled “Christmas” and “School Stuff,” stacks of yellowing photo albums, old toys. I was halfway through dusting off an old trunk when I noticed a draft coming from behind one of the bookcases. Curious, I pushed it aside. And there it was: a door. Small, worn, and locked with an antique padlock.
My heart thudded. I thought I knew everything about this house.
I found the key in the trunk — it was hidden under a false bottom, tucked next to a bundle of letters tied in red ribbon. My hands trembled as I unlocked the door.
It was a tiny room — maybe six feet wide. The walls were covered with drawings. My drawings. Ones I’d made as a kid and hadn’t seen in decades. Every single one, preserved. There was a rocking chair in the corner, and a box labeled “Maddie.” Inside were my lost baby teeth, my first lock of hair, a worn stuffed bear. A tear slipped down my cheek.
But then I saw the journal. It was hers. The first entry was dated the day after my parents died. Page after page chronicled our lives — my tantrums, my birthdays, my secrets. But as I skimmed further, a sentence stopped me cold: “He still calls once a year. I never told her he survived.”
He? My dad?
I dropped the journal. The air felt too thick. My entire life, I believed he died in the crash. Grandma said so.
And now I don’t know who to believe — except she’s not here to answer me anymore.
