I always assumed I’d be alone eventually. Still, Grandma Elinor’s death hit me fast—just like that, she was gone. Mom died when I was ten, and I never knew Dad. Grandma was everything. I stayed with her in the hospital those final six months, day and night.
After the service, at the lawyer’s office, I learned she’d left me the house—and a personal letter. It read: “Marie. Burn everything in the attic. Don’t look. Don’t open. I love you. Grandma.” It wasn’t part of the will—just her request.
Back home, I stared at the attic hatch. Curiosity won. I climbed up and regretted it immediately—dust and memories overwhelmed me. Hours passed as I sifted through boxes of cards, hairpins, photos. Tears came, but love and nostalgia lingered. Voices: “Don’t throw that—it’s from our first cake”… “I knit those mittens when your mom was your age.” And then—a locked chest I’d never opened.
I found the key in Grandma’s jewelry box, reopened the chest, and found letters. One sent to Grandma: “Please let me see her—just one hour.” Another: “Does she remember my voice?” They stopped after I turned five and we moved. Grandma had hidden me from my father.
Inside one photo: me with a man—the only one who could be Dad. I resolved: “I’m going to find you.”
I found him; he embraced me like a lost girl returned. Over pizza, he was warm… but insisted on driving me home that night. My instincts shrugged it off. But at home, he changed. Hostile, possessive, trespassing into Grandma’s belongings like he owned them.
He produced a deed he claimed Grandma quietly filed—making him co-owner. He mocked Mom’s death, blamed her, then demanded obedience. He stayed. I endured a week of humiliation and fear.
Then I met Olivia—his other daughter. We joined forces, hired a lawyer, proved the deed void: he’d abandoned the house for 15 years. It was mine. He was forced out, assigned community service, supervised. As we left court, Olivia said, “I always wanted a sister.” I smiled: “I always wanted to stop feeling alone.”