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Grandma didn’t tell me she was selling the house. I came home one day to the sign in our yard. That was the same day Ifound out I’d be moving in with Laura. I didn’t get a choice. She didn’t ask me how I felt about it because it didn’t matter. Grandma had made up her mind, and what I thought wasn’t important.

“Where should we start looking?” Margo asks. There’s a narrow clearing in the center she steps into.

I blink, refocusing and forcing myself to step forward. “I’m not really sure. Her stuff could be anywhere. It used to be in our attic.”

Margo starts opening boxes and peeking inside. “Do you remember anything else?”

“It’s in an old maroon trunk.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard to find,” she says. She takes out her phone and turns on the flashlight. The daylight helps, but it’s still dark in here, making it hard to see the farther we go in. “I think we’re going to have to move some things.” She reaches up to grab one of our dining chairs that’s stacked upside down and pushes it into me. “Here you go.”

My hands wrap around the wood, and I walk backwards until I find another spot for it. I flip it right side up and set it outside of the unit while we continue looking.

“Do you have any idea where it would be?”

“You’re the finder. Go find it,” I say.

“Fine. I will.” Margo starts climbing on top of the kitchen table. She’s on her knees, getting ready to stand. The table shouldn’t have been saved. It’s old. The legs are uneven, and there’s a crack running through the center. It wobbles and tilts to the side. She’s going to fall.

She shrieks.

I rush back toward her, put my hands out, and catch her around the waist.

Her arms wrap around my neck. She’s so close I can seeevery shade that makes up her big brown eyes. They widen even more.

Did she do this on purpose? Did she want me to catch her? Does this mean I’m right?

Why is my face starting to warm?

“You can put me down,” she says.

“Right.” I lower her to her feet. I scratch the back of my head and look away. “Don’t get on that again. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Then help me move it,” she says. “I think I see something on the shelf in the corner.”

I take one end, and she takes the other. We move it about a foot, just enough for her to slip through. She moves some boxes, setting them on the table. I keep them steady so they don’t fall the same way she did.

She almost closes herself in by rearranging everything. “Ah-ha!”

“What?”

She tugs on something large. “I think this might be it.”

I’m on the other side of her wall, and I can barely see her. “What does it look like?”

“It’s big and maroon.”

“That’s it.” I’ve seen it countless times while growing up. More than once, I sat in front of it in the attic, but I was never brave enough to open it. My mom didn’t want a kid, and I was afraid I’d find proof of how much she regretted me in that trunk.

“It’s kind of heavy. I don’t think I can lift it.”

I start moving more boxes out of the unit so I can clear the path enough to squeeze past the table too.

Margo kneels in front of the trunk and flips it open. It’s full of clothes and shoes.

I bend down next to her, but I don’t touch anything.

“Could you hold the light please?” she asks, handing me her phone.