Chapter 11 - The Boxes In The Attic
At two o’clock in the morning, unable to sleep, Eleanor climbed the creaking pull-down stairs into the dusty attic above their garage.
She carried a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the cobwebs and forgotten cardboard boxes.
She didn't know what she was looking for until she reached the far corner, behind Tom’s old sports equipment. Tucked beneath an oily tarp was a dented metal trash barrel.
Eleanor knelt down, shining the flashlight inside.
Inside the barrel lay a blackened, charred pile of paper. But beneath the top layer of ash were three thick manila envelopes that had escaped the fire.
With trembling, arthritic hands, Eleanor pulled the envelopes out.
She opened the first one.
Out spilled dozens of letters, postmarked from Great Lakes Naval Station, Pensacola, San Diego, and Bahrain, dating back twelve years.
Every single letter was addressed to: Mom and Dad.
Eleanor opened the earliest letter, dated twelve years ago during Sarah’s third week of boot camp:
Dear Mom and Dad,
The physical training is so hard, my shins are bruised and my hands are blistered from the rope climbs. But today I shot a perfect score on the marksmanship simulator! The Chief said I had the steadiest hands in the entire division.
I miss you both so much. Tom, if you're reading this, please take care of Mom's garden like you promised. I’m saving half my recruit pay to help you with your college tuition when I graduate.
I love you more than words can say.
Your daughter, Sarah.
Eleanor dropped the letter. A horrific, guttural scream tore from her chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that brought Robert running up the attic stairs in his pajamas.
"Eleanor! What is it?! What happened?!"
Robert reached the top of the stairs, shining his phone light on his wife, who was sitting on the dusty floorboards surrounded by dozens of photographs, graduation programs, and handwritten letters.
"He burned them, Robert..." Eleanor sobbed, holding up a charred photograph of Sarah in her recruit uniform, smiling brightly with an American flag behind her. "Tommy burned all of them! She wrote to us every single week! She offered to pay for his college! She loved us!"
Robert dropped to his knees beside his wife.
He picked up an envelope postmarked eight years ago from Naval Air Station Pensacola.
Inside was a formal wedding invitation, adorned with silver lettering:
The honor of your presence is requested at the marriage of Lieutenant Sarah Mitchell to Lieutenant Michael Hayes, United States Navy.
Tucked inside the invitation was a handwritten note from Sarah:
Dad, I bought two tickets for you and Mom. Front row. I know we had our problems, but there is nobody else in this world I want walking me down that aisle. Please come. Please.
Robert’s vision blurred with tears as the paper shook in his hands.
He remembered that Saturday eight years ago. He had spent that entire weekend helping Tom repaint his stolen motorcycle in the garage, laughing while Tom told jokes about how Sarah was probably working at a strip club in Florida.
May you like
And three hundred miles away, his daughter had walked down the chapel aisle alone, looking at two empty chairs decorated with white ribbons.
Robert collapsed against the attic wall, clutching the letters to his chest, sobbing like a broken child in the dark.
