Sitting on the rough plywood floor, I listen to the pinging of rain on shingles so close to my head. It’s a perfect day for this—not too hot, not too cold, and the rain echoes musical notes throughout the attic. I remember my father hauling Christmas ornaments up and down the skeletal ladder that creaked under his weight. The attic was a mysterious, forbidden place for us kids. Mom said we could fall right through the ceiling, and eight-year-old me did not see the harm in that.

When she went out for groceries, we would sneak up to the attic, my brother donning our grandfather’s army uniform, marching back and forth across the squishy floor like a toy soldier. I would head straight for Mom’s hope chest, the one passed down from her mother and promised to me.

It’s the day before my wedding, a small gathering in the garden with peonies and roses. Mom would have loved it. The cedar chest is just as magical today as it was then. I rummage through crocheted doilies and linen tablecloths, looking for the other glove, elbow-length with tiny pearl buttons in the same shade of ivory as my dress. That’s when I see it. Yellowed documents, two wrapped in pink satin, two tiny pairs of lace booties tucked inside. My mother’s secret pain was bundled up and hidden in a cedar tomb.

I close my eyes and picture them, the bridesmaids, the sisters I’ll never know.