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back door. I heard the siren and turned to watch the ambulance drive away. Pieces of torn paper scattered the floor. Grandfather wouldn’t want the house messy. I started picking up the pieces. As I threw the paper in the trash, I realized it didn’t matter to me anymore if the house were a mess.
    I went upstairs , changed into jeans and a gray t-shirt. No water in the bucket. Grandfather must have fixed the roof before he fell.
    After living in this house nine years, it was the first time I felt free and independent. I wouldn’t have to worry about Grandfather listening to every sound I made. I wouldn’t be in fear of what I did or said that would bring on verbal abuse. I could slam drawers shut, run down the steps, sing, put my feet on the coffee table. I wanted to explore all the rooms that I’d never been allowed to enter.
    Since my first week in the house, I’d wanted to see the attic. I thought back to the one and only time I tried to go up the stairs. “Stop! You’re forbidden to go up there.” Grandmother yelled. “Grandfather has traps and poison for the squirrels and mice that get in the attic. It’s no place for a small child. Good thing I caught you. Grandfather would’ve taken you to the barn and shown you the horsewhips.”
    I didn’t learn about horsewhips that day, but did two days later.
    Nine years ago, the attic steps had seemed so big. Ten steps—ten small, dusty steps. I’m not sure anyone had touched the stairs these last nine years. I didn’t see a light switch, so I went back to my room for a flashlight. I tapped my foot on each step, thinking Grandfather might have set a trap and my foot would go through the wood. I reached the last step. Cobwebs filled the corners of the doorframe. I gently turned the door knob. It opened. A string dangled from the ceiling three feet ahead. I gingerly walked in, pulled the string. The room filled with light. The attic was smaller than what I’d imagined—no bigger than my bedroom. A few rays of sunlight tried to enter from the plywood-covered window. The only things in the attic were two boxes in the corner. No traps, no poison. Grandmother had lied to me.
    Wa lking over to the boxes, I had to shake the feeling Grandfather would rush in and tell me I needed a whipping.
    Duct tape sealed both dust-covered boxes. Picking up the first, I was surprised how light it felt. The second wasn’t much heavier. I carried both boxes to the living room. Reading mystery novels had been a source of pleasure for me, and now I was experiencing my own mystery. What could be so important in these two boxes that they’d been sealed and stored in the attic all these years?
    I went to the kitchen, opened the junk drawer, pulled out a box cutter , carefully cut the duct tape. I took a deep breath, opened the first box. Inside, a photo album filled with black and white pictures. I quickly scanned page after page. No one I recognized.
    Inside the second box , a diary and two stacks of letters—one bound with string, the other wrapped in red ribbon. The first stack was letters Grandfather sent to Grandmother when he was in the army. The stack wrapped in ribbon was letters addressed to my mother from Grandmother. All these letters had the words return to sender handwritten over the mailing address.
    The diary was dated 1956. I opened the cover , saw the word Evelyn written in red ink. My mother’s name. This was her diary.
    My heart raced. I could learn so many things about my family’s past. What would I look through first? Why hadn’t my grandparents wanted me to see these things?
    It was getting dark , my stomach grumbled. I fixed a bologna sandwich, pickles, and potato chips. Grandfather would never let me eat a meal like this for dinner. He always had to have meat and potatoes.
    I sat on the sofa , started looking at the letters from Grandfather. His handwriting was hard to read. I could tell he missed Grandmother. He signed each letter I love you . I’d never heard