The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. Cobwebs brushed her face as she reached for the cardboard box labeled "Mom's Old Things." Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed photographs, was it. The crisp, white envelope, addressed in her father's familiar, looping handwriting: "To the Board of Directors, Sterling & Sons." Her pulse stuttered.
She sat on the floor, the unsealed envelope trembling in her hands. Why hadn’t her mother mentioned this? Years she'd spent believing the accepted narrative – her father’s sudden, unexpected heart attack. He never got to retire. Now, this. Her breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as she unfolded the letter. The words swam before her eyes: *...irreconcilable differences... unprofessional conduct... lack of faith in the company’s future...*
A hot wave surged through her, leaving her skin prickling. She felt a pressure building behind her eyes, the edges of her vision blurring. She crumpled the letter, the paper crackling like gunfire. Why would he have written these things? She pressed a fist against her mouth, trying to stifle the sound that clawed its way up her throat. The box lay open, forgotten, the forgotten pieces of her family history a jumbled, painful mess.