Then I found another envelope.
This one was addressed to me.
In Grandpa’s handwriting.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The letter began:
“If you’re reading this, someone finally told you where to look.”
I stopped breathing.
“For years, I’ve feared this moment.”
“Before you judge me, please finish reading.”
I continued.
The story that followed changed everything.
Thirty years earlier, Grandpa had indeed owned the cottage.
The electrical system had failed inspection.
He had immediately hired contractors to replace it.
The work was documented.
Permits were approved.
Everything was repaired.
Or so he believed.
Months later, after my parents died, investigators discovered that one contractor had secretly used cheaper materials and falsified part of the work.
The dangerous wiring remained hidden inside the walls.
The contractor was eventually prosecuted.
But the guilt destroyed Grandpa.
He blamed himself because he had signed the final approval.
Because he had trusted the wrong people.
Because the cottage belonged to him.
“Legally, it wasn’t my fault,” the letter said.
“But in my heart, I felt responsible every day.”
My tears fell onto the page.
Then came the part that truly broke me.
“The night your parents died, they saved all six of you.”
I froze.
What?
I read faster.
My parents had originally planned to bring us to the cottage that weekend.
All six children.
At the last minute, my mother decided we should stay with Grandpa because several of us had colds.
Hours later, the fire happened.
If we had gone…
We likely would have been sleeping upstairs.
None of us would have survived.
The room spun around me.
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
