After my grandmother died, my husband pressured me to sell his house — but a letter hidden in the attic revealed a secret that ended up changing everything.
My name is Mira, I’m 36 years old. I live just outside Portland, Oregon, in a quiet neighborhood where people greet each other from their porches and children ride their bikes until the streetlights start blinking. From the outside, my life might look like a picture on a greeting card.
I’ve been married to Paul for seven years. He’s 38, tall and slim, always in neatly pressed shirts and polished shoes, even on weekends. He works in finance, a job that keeps him glued to his phone most of the time, but at home, he effortlessly slips into the role of the perfect dad.
We have twin daughters, Ellie and June. They’re four years old and, somehow, they take after Paul completely. Blonde curls, dimples on their cheeks, and those sparkling blue eyes that light up just before they get up to mischief. I love them more than anything, even when they get Play-Doh stuck in the rug or spill juice on the sofa for the hundredth time.
From the outside, our life seemed perfect. We lived in a cozy little house with white shutters and a lemon tree in the garden. On Sundays, we would walk to the farmers’ market hand in hand, sipping our coffee while the girls chose tiny jars of honey.
Friday nights were movie night, usually « Moana » or « Frozen » for the thousandth time, and the girls always ended up falling asleep in a pile, tangled up in arms and blankets, before the end. Paul carried them upstairs, one in each arm, then we finished the bowl of popcorn in silence.
He never forgot birthdays or important dates. Sometimes I’d find sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, with little hearts drawn on them. He told me I was « the calm in his storm. » And I believed him. I really did. Because when you live inside love, it’s not like a fairy tale. It’s like gravity: stable, invisible, always there.
But everything started to change the day my grandmother died.
She was 92 years old and still lived in the small house where she had raised my mother. The house sat peacefully on a small hill, surrounded by hydrangeas and old oak trees. It was my second home when I was a child.
She baked lavender biscuits and served tea in mismatched cups, all the while telling me stories of her childhood during the war. Everything there smelled of her. The lavender soap, the Earl Grey tea, and that scented powder she never stopped using.
Paul came with me to the funeral, squeezing my hand so tightly it almost hurt. I remember watching him during the ceremony. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were bright and tired.
I thought he was suffering with me. I thought he understood. But today, I’m not so sure anymore.
After the ceremony, while the girls stayed at my sister’s house, I went back alone to my grandmother’s house to gather a few last things. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her. Not yet.
Paul did not take that well.
« We need the money, not your memories, » he snapped, standing on the doorstep, arms crossed, his voice low but sharp with annoyance.
I turned to him, bewildered.
« Money? Paul, she’s only been gone three days. Couldn’t we… slow things down a bit? »
His eyes slid towards the stairs, then back to me.
« I’m just saying it’s an old shack. There’s work to be done. We could really use the cash. You’re dragging things out. »
I didn’t answer. I just stood there, holding my grandmother’s crocheted blanket, the one she always kept on her armchair. My throat tightened, as if I’d swallowed something sharp.
Outside, the sky was a uniform gray, the kind of gray that weighs on your chest. Inside, everything felt heavy. Half-eaten cake remnants from the reception, empty glasses on the dining room table, and that thick silence that falls when everyone has left.
I went slowly up to her room. The bed still had the same flowered bedspread it had for decades. I sat down softly; the springs creaked slightly, as if they too were in mourning.
Paul entered without knocking.
« Mira, » he said, remaining stiff on the threshold, « it’s getting late. We should go. »
« I need a few more minutes. »
He sighed.
« What’s left to pack? We’ve been here all day. »
I didn’t answer. I stared at the photo on her bedside table. My grandmother was holding me when I was a baby, and we were both laughing. Her laughter echoed in my head, soft and clear.
As I was getting up to leave, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw Mrs. Callahan, my lifelong neighbor, standing right in front of the gate. She was looking around nervously, then whispered:
« If only you knew what your husband was doing here… when your grandmother was still alive. »
She slipped a small, old-fashioned key into my hand. Suddenly, I understood — it was the key to the attic.
« What do you mean, what was my husband doing? And how did you get that key? » I asked.
« It’s not for me to tell you, » Mrs. Callahan whispered. « Your grandmother gave it to me about a month before she died. She told me I had to give it to you personally. »
A shiver ran down my spine.
Paul had already returned to the car, tapping away on his phone.
I took a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Callahan.
« Thank you. »
She nodded and walked away without adding anything.
I stood for a moment contemplating the key in my palm. Then I turned back to Paul.
« Can you take the car and drive the girls home? I’ll take a taxi later. I just… need a little time. »
He looked up from his phone, frowning.
« Mira, seriously? »
See more on the next page
Advertisement
