Dreading the task in front of me as I walk up the narrow, creaking stairwell, I wonder how long this will take. My great-grandmother died a week ago. Since I live closest, my mother asked me to check out the house to get an idea of what needs to be done and estimate how long it will take to get it on the market. I’m to report back this weekend so that we can form a plan.
The grand old house has lacked proper maintenance for many years. Built in the mid-19th century by my great-great-grandfather, John Miller, the house overlooks a lake in southern Georgia. As a kid, I had a love/hate relationship with the house. On the one hand, the house gave me the creeps. On the other, it’s castle-like features, and beautiful interior kept me in awe.
I’m sad that after all these years, mom wants to sell the house. I think her sentiments are like mine, and she can’t see herself living here. I sure couldn’t.
As I reach the top of the main stairwell, I hesitate. My eyes focus on the second set of stairs that will take me to the attic level. The tension in my hand builds as I hold the banister, tightly and my knuckles turn white. Releasing the grip and shaking my hand to get the blood flowing again, I realize I must go up to the attic to finish the task.
“Get a hold of yourself, Anne,” I say out loud as if doing so will help to relinquish the dread. “Just go upstairs, check it out, and you can get out of here.”
The stairwell to the attic is even more narrow, and I place my hands on the walls as I ascend. Once I reach the top, peering around the wall, I half expect to see my great-great grandparents waiting for me. The sound of thunder booming outside and the rainfall hitting the roof does nothing to help this eerie sensation.
The first thing I notice is an antique mahogany chest of drawers with beautiful glass knobs and carved front feet resembling paws. The carving on the chest is exquisite, and I’m drawn to it as if it is calling my name. All my fears of entering the attic disappear as my eyes focus on this magnificent piece of furniture willing me to explore its drawers.
Those knots in my stomach release and now I feel fluttering butterflies of excitement as my hands caress the smooth, beautiful redwood. The fragrance of cedar is lovely. How can this be? This chest must be over 200 years old. How is it that the woody smell of this cedar is so strong?
As I wonder about the scent, my fingers make their way to the magnificent glass knobs of the top drawer, and I pull it open slowly and carefully. I find a stack of envelopes bound by yarn. As if my great grandmother is whispering in my ear granting permission, I feel the need to take a glimpse of these handwritten letters.
As I pick up the stack, a piece of cream-colored stationery falls to the floor. Picking it up, then unfolding the delicate sheet of paper, I notice the emblem at the top. It’s the letter “H.” My great-grandmother’s last name was Miller, so it’s not her stationery.
Carefully, I place the sheet on the top of the dresser and smooth it out with my hands as I contemplate. Even though I feel as if I’m intruding, I start to read the letter written in elegant penmanship.
“Dear Howard,
I write this letter with such pain. I love you so much, and it hurts my heart to write this. I look at your photo I’ve kept secret from my family. I feel a tingling sensation in my fingers as I caress your image. The time we spent together in the park those glorious summer nights will forever be cherished.
But you know we can never be man and wife, as I love my husband as well. I am a woman of integrity, and although my whole heart belongs to you, I am committed to my marriage.
You must know, dear Howard, that I carry your baby inside me. My husband will never know, I have promised myself. He will raise your child as if it is his. But I will know the truth. And, this truth will always keep your memory alive in my heart and soul.
Forever yours, Madelyn”
Finishing the letter, my mouth is agape. I’ve discovered a family secret. Did my great-grandmother know the secret? Did she know that that man who raised her was not her biological father? Did my grandmother know? Did my mother know? Did Howard ever find out that he had a daughter? The letter never found its way to him.
Carefully, I fold the delicate sheet of stationery. I notice a photo of a handsome young man in a Confederate uniform. This must be Howard; my biological great-great-grandfather. My heart skips a beat as I caress the image.
I decide to keep my great-great grandmother’s secret. I see no point in revealing what must have been a tumultuous time in her life. Taking the photograph and the letter, I make my way to the stairwell. Before I descend, warmth washes over my face. All the tension I felt earlier is gone, and my heart feels full.
I say out loud, “Rest easy grandmother. Your secret is safe with me.”
The sensation of love and gratitude envelopes my body and my soul as if my great-great grandmother is thanking me from the heavens for preserving her honor.