My father lived to ninety-four, sharp until the very end, in the same house I grew up in. When he passed, the job of clearing the attic fell to me, his only child. It was full of the ordinary sediment of a long life — boxes, old chairs, Christmas ornaments.
But in the far corner, under a folded wool blanket, was a leather suitcase I had never seen before. It was old, cracked with age, and it was locked. Tied to the handle with a bit of string was a luggage tag, yellowed and soft, and on it, in my father’s careful print, was my own name. ‘For Margaret.’
I was seventy-one years old, and in all those years my father had never once mentioned this suitcase to me. Not on a single birthday, not in any of our thousands of conversations. Whatever was inside, he had meant for me to find it only after he was gone.
There was no key anywhere near it. I searched that attic for days. I searched his desk, his coat pockets, the coffee can where he kept odds and ends. Nothing. A whole week went by with that locked suitcase sitting in my living room, keeping its secret, my name staring up at me from the tag.
Finally, I remembered the little key he wore on his watch chain, the one I’d always assumed opened his old pocket watch. I found the watch in his nightstand, worked the tiny key free, and carried it to the suitcase with my heart in my throat. It slid in. It turned.
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