I stared at the letter.
Eleanor had known for months.
Every time I'd mentioned Grandma, she'd known exactly who I meant.
And she'd never said a word.
Daniel showed me the collection in a storage room.
Nine boxes, carefully labeled.
Inside one was a photograph.
Two teenage girls sat beneath a tree, sharing a book.
One was Eleanor.
The other had my grandmother's eyes.
On the back was written, "Margaret and Ellie. Summer, 1972. Sisters forever."
I turned it over several times.
What could have happened between them that neither had mentioned the other for decades?
Daniel explained that the prepaid storage period ended Friday.
I promised to return with a van.
Then I went home and continued Eleanor's letter.
The next paragraph changed everything.
"James, there is something worse than my keeping our connection secret. Years ago, your family needed help. I knew. And I did nothing."
I read it again.
I was nine when Dad lost his job.
I remembered Mom crying in the kitchen.
