When Grandma died, I thought the worst part would be the funeral. I was wrong.
I inherited her old house… and a note that made my stomach twist:
Burn everything in the attic.
That was it. No explanation. Just her neat handwriting, the ink smudged like her hands had trembled.
I didn’t listen. And what I found up there changed everything I thought I knew about my family.
I always figured I’d end up alone one day. But not this soon.
One moment, Grandma Elinor was here. The next… gone.
Mom died when I was ten. Dad? I never even knew him. But Grandma—she was my rock. My person. Those last six months, I stayed by her side in the hospital. Every day. Every night.
After the service, I found myself in the lawyer’s office. His desk smelled faintly of coffee and paper. He gave me a careful smile as he opened a folder.
“Elinor left you a residential home. Fully yours. No debts.”
Then he reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope.
“She also left you a personal letter.”
I opened it. The words were simple, but they punched the air out of my lungs.
Marie. If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t make it back home. Burn everything you find in the attic. Don’t look. Don’t open. Just burn it. It’s important. I love you. Grandma.
I stared at the note.
“She wanted me to… burn the attic?”
The lawyer shrugged.
“It’s not a legal instruction. Just something personal.”
I left and walked for nearly an hour before I turned onto our street. The house loomed ahead, silent. Too silent.
I dropped my bag on the floor and glanced up—straight at the dark square in the ceiling. The attic hatch.
I gave a half-smile to no one.
“Feels like the start of a creepy movie.”
I pulled down the ladder.
“I’m sorry, Grandma…”
The hatch groaned as I pushed it open. A cloud of dust smacked me in the face. I sneezed so hard it made my eyes water.
I didn’t know it then, but climbing into that attic was the biggest mistake of my life.
Hours passed as I sorted through boxes filled with Grandma’s memories.
Birthday cards I’d made her in crayon. Little glass jars full of buttons. A photo album that smelled like time itself.
I kept crying without realizing it.
“Why did you want me to burn this, Grandma? This is you. This is us.”
Her voice echoed in my head, half-memory, half-imagination:
“Don’t throw that out, Marie! That’s from our first cake. The one you salted instead of sugared!”
And another:
“Careful with those mittens, honey. I knitted them when your mom was your age.”
Everything was warm… until I saw it.
A large chest. Heavy. The wood was scratched and old. A rusted lock hung in place.
No key.
And then it hit me—Grandma’s little jewelry box. The one she always kept beside her bed.
I bolted downstairs, yanked open the drawer. There it was. Inside, a tiny rusted key. My hands shook as I ran back to the attic.
The lock clicked. The chest creaked open.
Inside were yellowed envelopes tied with twine, faded photographs, and… one photo of me.
A little girl holding the hand of a man I didn’t know.
On the back: My son and my granddaughter. Thomas and Marie.
My pulse roared in my ears. More photos. More letters.
One read:
“Please, Mom. Let me see her. I miss her laugh. Just one hour. Please.”
Another:
“It’s been months. Does she still ask about me? Does she remember my voice?”
I whispered to the dust:
“Grandma… why did you keep him from me?”
The last letter was dated the year I turned five. Right before we moved. The letters stopped then.
Grandma had hidden me from her own son—my father.
Why?
I folded one letter and tucked it into my coat pocket.
“I’m going to find you, Dad. I need to know.”
I found his address. The door swung open to reveal the man from the photo. His eyes went wide.
“Marie?”
I nodded. He laughed, grabbed me, spun me like I was five again.
“I can’t believe it. My little girl!”
We went to a pizzeria. He smiled the whole time, told stories, watched me eat like he was afraid I’d disappear.
But he didn’t invite me in. When I suggested sitting on his porch, he shook his head.
“Let’s go to your place instead. Maybe stop by your grandma’s grave in the morning. We can drive tonight.”
It was already late, but he insisted. I told myself it was excitement. I ignored the unease.
We reached my house. He said he was tired, so I made up the couch. My last thought before falling asleep was:
I finally have a father.
But I woke to creaking. Footsteps. Upstairs.
I grabbed a flashlight and climbed to the attic.
“Dad?”
He whipped around, startled.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I heard noises…”
His voice turned sharp.
“Then close your ears and go back to sleep! What, are you some spoiled princess?”
My chest tightened. The kind man from the pizzeria was gone. This one was rifling through Grandma’s chest, tossing things aside.
“Dad… what are you looking for?”
“None of your business, kid.”
Then he grinned and held up a dusty paper.
“Finally. No more sneaking around. No more sheds. I’ve got the documents. Half this house is mine.”
“No! Grandma left it to me. I have the will!”
“And I’ve got the original deed. We bought it in both our names. She just lied to you.”
My voice shook.
“There must’ve been a reason.”
“Oh, there was. Your mother died, and she blamed me.”
When I asked if she was wrong, his eyes hardened.
“She was sick. And yes, I drank now and then. Good for the blood flow. But her body gave out. Not my fault.”
I whispered:
“So… she died because of you.”
“Don’t start. Go to sleep.”
When I refused, he leaned closer.
“I live here now. You do as I say. Daddy’s home.”
The words haunted me until sunrise.
The next week was hell. He smoked in the kitchen. Changed the locks. Ordered me to iron his shirts.
I cried once. Then I stopped. If he could dig through Grandma’s life, I could dig through his.
I drove to his house. A woman in her thirties answered.
“I’m Marie… I think we have something in common.”
Her eyes widened.
“He found you?”
She invited me in, poured me water.
I told her, “He said you were his girlfriend.”
She laughed bitterly.
“He’s my father. And I can’t get him to leave.”
My skin prickled.
“I’m Olivia… your stepsister. We don’t have time to unpack that now.”
Two weeks later, we had a lawyer. A good one. Between us, we scraped together enough money to fight.
It turned out Grandma had legally updated the deed years ago. In California, if a co-owner abandons property for over 15 years without paying taxes or maintaining it, they lose all claim.
The house was mine.
And Dad? He was already wanted for petty theft, assault, and violating a restraining order.
He was ordered to leave, sentenced to community service, and placed under supervision.
As we left the courthouse, Olivia looked at me.
“I always wanted a sister.”
I squeezed her hand.
“I always wanted to stop feeling alone.”
We walked away together. Two women. No longer daughters of a monster.
Finally free.