We waited three days before opening the chest.

My surgeon had advised rest, and Tobias insisted we follow the instructions with the stubbornness of someone who had spent years giving them to patients.

He and Lillian came with me to the storage facility.

Ruth had offered to come too, but I knew I would be unable to bear a large audience for whatever my father had hidden.

The wooden chest smelled of cedar.

Inside were folded blankets, yellowing tablecloths, two knitted baby sweaters I recognized immediately, and a metal document box sealed with a simple clasp.