My stomach tightened.
“What was he doing?”
“He was searching for something.”
I stared at her.
“In the wall?”
She nodded.
“I came downstairs around eleven for a snack. He already had the wall open.”
She paused.
“He had a flashlight.”
“What was he looking at?”
“The space behind the drywall. He kept moving insulation around.”
“Did you ask him?”
“He said it was electrical.”
Maddie shook her head.
“But it didn’t look like he was checking wires.”
“What did it look like?”
“Like he knew something was supposed to be there.”
Then she hesitated.
“There’s more.”
“Tell me.”
“He found something.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“I couldn’t see it. It was small.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Put it in his pocket.”
My heart started beating faster.
“And then?”
“He saw me watching.”
She looked down.
“He told me to go back upstairs.”
Then she added,
“Later he told me not to tell you about the flashlight.”
“Why?”
“He said it would upset you.”
She looked guilty.
“I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”
“Maddie, look at me.”
She did.
“You told me now.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
She nodded.
“You always tell me doing the right thing can be hard.”
“I do.”
“Not telling you felt wrong.”
“You made the right choice.”
After she went upstairs, I sat alone for several minutes.
Brian had been searching inside the wall.
He had found something.
He had hidden it in his pocket.
And he had asked our daughter not to tell me.
I went downstairs.
Brian was putting tools back into the cabinet when he heard me.
“Hey. I was about to come upstairs.”
“Brian.”
He turned.
“Maddie told me.”
His body went still.
“She told me about the flashlight.”
Silence.
“She told me you were searching inside the wall.”
He looked away.
“She also saw you put something in your pocket.”
Still nothing.
“Whatever this is, tell me the truth.”
Brian sat on the workbench.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“I should’ve told you six months ago.”
I stared at him.
“Six months?”
“I found something in the attic.”
“What?”
“An envelope.”
He hesitated.
“It had your father’s handwriting on it.”
My breath caught.
“My father?”
Brian nodded.
My father had been dead for twelve years.
He died of a heart attack at sixty-seven.
He was an accountant.
Quiet.
Dependable.
Not very good at emotional conversations.
He rarely said much, but he always showed up.
Maddie had been six months old when he died.
She never knew him.
“What was something written by Dad doing in our attic?”
“This used to be your grandmother’s house.”
That was true.
My grandparents had built the house in 1952.
My mother grew up here.
I spent part of my childhood here.
After Mom died, the house eventually became mine.
Brian continued.
“I found the envelope when I was fixing the attic vent.”
“Was it addressed to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
His expression changed.
