Chapter 18 - The Intercepted Letters
I picked up the small silver key,
its cold metal heavy against my palm.
Linda walked into the room,
staring at the key with an expression of sudden,
chilling realization.
"Where does this go?"
I asked,
turning the key over in my fingers.
"The attic desk,"
Linda whispered,
her breath catching in her throat.
"My father’s old cedar desk in the attic."
"Helen spent three days in this house right after you were born,
Myra,"
Linda continued,
her voice dropping into an anxious hush.
"Before she took you to Columbus,
she stayed up in the attic clearing out Father’s legal documents."
We walked up the narrow,
steep stairs leading to the third-floor attic.
The room was warm,
smelling of dry cedar wood and old paper.
In the corner,
under the sloped roof,
sat a massive desk made of dark cherry wood,
its drawers locked tight with brass keyholes.
I stepped forward,
inserted the silver key into the center lock,
and turned it.
The lock clicked open with a deep,
satisfying thud.
I pulled open the long middle drawer.
Inside lay a thick leather binder wrapped in a dark ribbon.
I untied the ribbon and opened the binder.
Inside were dozens of letters,
stamped,
postmarked,
and addressed to Linda from a small town in Illinois,
dating back twenty-nine years.
The sender’s name on the return address was Julian Ross.
My breath hitched in my throat.
"Julian..."
Linda gasped,
covering her mouth with both hands as she stumbled backward against a wooden chest.
"Who is Julian Ross?"
I asked,
my voice tight with a sudden,
overwhelming wave of emotion.
Linda sank down onto the wooden chest,
tears spilling over her lashes.
"Julian was your biological father,
Myra,"
Linda wept softly.
"He was nineteen when I got pregnant."
"When my father found out,
he threatened to have Julian arrested for trespassing and ruin his family’s farm."
"Julian came to the house three times to see me,"
"but Helen turned him away at the gate."
"Helen told him that I had left the state,"
"that I didn't want him,"
"and that the baby had not survived."
I looked down at the letters in my hand,
my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
Every single letter had been intercepted by Helen twenty-nine years ago.
Julian had written to Linda every month for three years,
begging for news,
asking if the rumor of the baby’s death was true,
and promising that he was saving money to come find her.
Helen had locked his letters away in this desk,
ensuring that Linda believed Julian had abandoned her,
and ensuring that Julian believed his child was dead.
The tragedy of our family had not begun with a blue suitcase.
May you like
It had begun with a cruel,
calculated wall built around three young people who never knew the letters were sitting in the dark.
