PART 1
For years, my grandmother Nancy made me repeat the same promise.
“Emily, don’t open that handbag until I’m gone.”
The bag was old, brown, and faded, always sitting on the highest shelf of her bedroom closet.
Nobody was allowed to touch it.
I learned that when I was fifteen.
One afternoon, Uncle Robert jokingly reached for it.
“Come on, Mom. What are you hiding in there?”
Grandma slapped his hand away before he could touch the strap.
“I said don’t touch it!”
The room went completely silent.
Robert laughed awkwardly, but none of us ever joked about the handbag again.
After that, Grandma would occasionally pull me aside when nobody else was around.
She would hold both my hands and whisper the same thing.
“Promise me you’ll wait until I’m gone.”
“Why me?”
“You’ll understand when you open it. And after you take out what’s inside, put the handbag back with me.”
I always promised.
Years passed.
Then Grandma died.
I was twenty-eight when I sat in the front pew of the church surrounded by relatives I had barely seen in years.
Grandma had eleven grandchildren, three daughters, two sons, and somehow she had made every one of us believe we were her favorite.
My mother, Carol, sat near the back.
Alone.
Nobody spoke to her.
That had been normal for most of my life.
Twenty-five years earlier, something had happened that caused my mother to leave the family.
I knew there had been accusations about money disappearing from my grandfather Frank’s safe, but Mom never explained much.
The family believed she had taken it.
I had grown up knowing not to ask.
During the funeral, I kept glancing toward Mom.
Then the funeral director stepped toward Grandma’s casket.
He was about to close it.
And suddenly I remembered.
The handbag.
My stomach dropped.
“We forgot the bag.”
Everyone turned toward me.
My mother closed her eyes.
“Emily, sit down. The cars are waiting.”
“But Grandma made me promise.”
Uncle Robert immediately stood.
“Sweetheart, I’ll get it. We can put it in the casket at the cemetery.”
Something about how quickly he volunteered made me uncomfortable.
“No.”
He frowned.
“Emily—”
“She asked me to do it.”
I grabbed my keys.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
Grandma’s house still smelled like cinnamon and the cardigan she wore every Sunday.
I dragged a chair into her bedroom, climbed onto it, and reached for the handbag.
It was heavier than I expected.
Not jewelry heavy.
Paper heavy.
I sat on her bed and opened the brass clasp.
Inside were twelve envelopes.
Eleven had names written across them.
One for every grandchild.
Emily.
Megan.
Jake.
Ashley.
Tyler.
And the others.
The final envelope had no name.
