old house.
Carol had passed away years earlier.
Her son Tommy lived there now.
He opened the door wearing slippers and an expression that said he had absolutely no idea why five emotional people were standing on his porch late at night.
“Rick?”
“Do you still have your mother’s papers?”
He frowned.
“Some boxes. Why?”
Ava answered.
“We think Aunt Carol hid letters from our mother.”
Tommy stared at Vanessa.
Then at me.
“That’s insane.”
“Probably,” I said.
“Show us the boxes anyway.”
The attic smelled like dust and old cardboard.
We searched through decades of Carol’s life.
Tax records.
Christmas decorations.
Old photographs.
Medical paperwork.
Boxes of things nobody had wanted badly enough to throw away.
Almost an hour passed.
Then Ava said,
“Dad.”
Something in her voice made everyone stop.
She was kneeling beside a plastic storage container.
At the bottom sat a bundle of envelopes held together
