death, I had packed her papers into boxes and carried them up to my attic. Ten years later, most were still unopened.
“She might have kept something,” I said.
Anna looked up.
“I can’t promise,” I added. “But I’ll look.”
PART 5: The Letters in the Attic
I barely slept that night.
When daylight reached the bedroom curtains, I climbed into the attic and began opening boxes.
There were tax returns, birthday cards, photographs with names written on the back. I found a drawing I’d made in elementary school. My mother had dated it and saved it in an envelope.
I sat holding it for a moment, unable to reconcile that care with what Anna had told me.
Then I put it aside and kept looking.
At the bottom of a carton was a shoebox sealed with yellowed tape. My mother’s handwriting ran across the lid.
