I always thought I’d end up alone—but not this soon. Just—bam—and Grandma Elinor was gone.
Mom died when I was ten. I never knew Dad. Grandma was my world. I stayed with her in the hospital every day those last six months.
At her lawyer’s office, I learned she left me the house, no debts… plus a personal letter: “Marie, if you’re reading this… burn everything in the attic. Don’t look. Just burn it. I love you. Grandma.” It wasn’t legal—just a pleading request.
At home, the attic hatch stared at me. Dust and curiosity won. As I sifted through Grandma’s life—old cards, buttons, the scent of memories—I found the locked chest. I retrieved the small jewelry box key from her bedside drawer.
Inside: yellowed letters, photos—one of a man and a girl labeled “My son and granddaughter, Thomas and Marie.” Letters from a father I’d never known, begging to see me—until we moved and they stopped.
My heart raced. Why did you hide me from Dad? I vowed to find him.
When I did, he welcomed me at his door with joy—but insisted we go to my house that night instead of inviting me in. I was ecstatic to finally have a father.
That night, I awoke to find him in the attic, rifling through Grandma’s things—and cruelly claiming half the house due to backdated documents. He became abusive and controlling. Grandma had kept him away to protect me.
I found Olivia—another daughter he’d done the same to. We joined forces, hired a lawyer, and had the house legally restored to me (abandonment laws applied). He was evicted, picked up charges, and we were free.
Olivia whispered, “I always wanted a sister.” I squeezed her hand. “I always wanted not to be alone.”