“Are you sure?” Noah placed a hand on my shoulder.
I nodded.
We broke the lock. It made a stubborn, grinding snap, and then we pushed the doors open. A breath of cold, stale air rose to meet us.
Noah went first, flashlight beam cutting a path through the dust. I followed carefully down the narrow steps.
What we found was so much worse, and so much better, than I’d expected.
We broke the lock, and then we pushed the doors open.
Advertisement
Along one wall, perfectly lined up, were stacks of boxes, taped and labeled in Grandma’s handwriting.
Noah opened the nearest one.
On top, folded flat and perfectly preserved, was a tiny, yellowed baby blanket. Under it, a pair of knitted infant booties.
Then, a black-and-white photograph.
Noah opened the nearest box.
It was Grandma Evelyn! She couldn’t have been more than 16, and she was sitting on a hospital bed.
Advertisement
Her eyes were wide, exhausted, and terrified. She was holding a newborn baby wrapped in that very blanket.
And the baby, I realized, wasn’t my mother.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Leave a Comment