I’d always avoided the attic. As a child, I would race past the stairs, certain something might reach out from the shadows. The air up there always smelled like forgotten winters and quiet stories no one told. But after Mom passed, something changed. Her voice no longer filled the kitchen. Her slippers no longer sat by the door. Yet somehow, in the stillness above, she remained. The attic felt like it was waiting for me.
The wooden steps creaked as I climbed. Sunlight streamed through the cracks, catching the dust like little floating memories. I sat on the old quilt where she used to fold laundry and let the silence wrap around me. At the far end, the closet groaned when I opened it, revealing boxes filled with childhood treasures—a crayon drawing, a broken rosary, and a pocketknife I didn’t recognize.
Tucked behind a stack of books was a shoebox, its lid softened with age. Inside were black-and-white photos, postcards, and letters written in delicate handwriting. One photo showed Mom with a man I didn’t recognize—he had a kind smile and warm eyes. He wasn’t my father.
Then I found the envelope. It was sealed, addressed simply to “Mary.” My mother’s name. The handwriting was familiar, yet distant. My hands trembled as I opened it.
“I’m sorry it took me so long…”
The letter unfolded like a forgotten story. It spoke of summer afternoons, quiet laughter, and memories that had long since faded. Then came a line that changed everything: “I still wonder if she ever told you.”
Continue reading on next page…