“Did Grandpa write about me?”

“He did.”

Her eyes widened.

“What did he say?”

“That you would pay attention to things.”

She grinned.

“He knew that before I was born?”

“Yes.”

“Was he right?”

“Very.”

She looked around the room.

“So he’s kind of still here.”

“In a way.”

“In the house?”

“Yes.”

“In the walls?”

I laughed.

“In the walls.”

She considered that.

“People leave things behind even after they’re gone.”

“They do.”

“And if you pay attention, sometimes you find them.”

I looked at her.

“Exactly.”

Later that evening, Brian and I sat at the kitchen table drinking tea.

The hole in the living-room wall was still visible from where we sat.

The couch was still pulled forward.

The letters rested on the counter.

“My grandmother hid money in these walls,” I said.

Brian nodded.

“My father hid letters.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder what else is here.”

He looked toward the opening.

“Do you want to find out?”

“Not tonight.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I looked at him.

“But next time we look together.”

“Together.”

“And if you find anything first?”

“I tell you.”

“Immediately.”

“Yes.”

We sat quietly.

Then I remembered something else from Dad’s letter.

“He was right about you.”

Brian frowned.

“My father.”

“He never told you he liked me.”

“No.”

“But he wrote it.”

Brian waited.

“He said some people build things for the people they love because they’re not always good at saying the words.”

Brian looked toward the wall.

Then at me.

“That sounds familiar.”

“It does.”

I reached across the table.

“But you still have to say the words.”

He nodded.

Then he said them.

“I love you.”

No speech.

No performance.

Just Brian.

“I love you too.”

Then I pointed toward the living room.

“And next time, tell me before you remove four feet of our house.”

He laughed.

“I promise.”

The house had been standing since 1952.

More than seventy years.

It had held birthdays.

Christmases.

Arguments.

Repairs.

Hidden money.

Letters.

Secrets.

People trying to love each other well.

And people sometimes getting it wrong.

The house was still standing.

Still holding all of it.

And when we were ready to discover what else remained inside those walls, we would do it together.

That, I finally understood, was the point.

Not simply that the house had lasted.

But that our family could too.