[ WP ] Today , you went into the room your parents told you to never go in .

Finally, my long held curiosity could be answered. 
 
 Shame it has to be like this; if Dad was still alive I'm not even sure he'd want me to go up there. For years and years of my youth it was this big secret. `` If I catch you up there, there will be hell to pay.'' He wanted to scare me away and, to his credit, he did. 
 
 Just two days ago he was pronounced dead. Hard years spent fighting the good fight, it was really hard seeing him in his last days; a blank, weak imposter who used to be my father. Everyone's been so upset, I did n't even think about the attic until mum mentioned it. 
 
 A narrow manhole sits on the ceiling in my parents wardrobe. If I did n't see dad clambering down from there once, I'm not sure I'd even know about it. I got in early from school and heard some bumping around from folks room. Edging close to the door I did n't plan to sneak up on him. Only when I heard his hardened, gruff voice sobbing weakly did I halt in my tracks, that was the first time I have ever heard him cry. He was always the tough guy; very hard on me and my sisters, over protective and stern... I could n't even imagine him being vunerable like that, my throat swelled with nervousness. 
 
 Entering the room, I looked up at where I caught him off guard all those years ago. I stood there frozen as he stepped down the shaky, metal ladder. What am I going to say? What is up there? Is he going to be angry? He turned his reddened, puffy eyes and stopped on the final step as he saw me. I could see the cold fright and shame from being caught. It slowly crept over his lips, figeting with his nose and then turned to anger in his eyes. 
 
 `` You never go up there, you hear. If I catch you there will be hell to pay.'' He closed the wardrobe doors and that was that. We never spoke about it again. 
 
 My memories shook me up and I felt nervous as I opened the manhole cover to the roof. It smelt cold and dusty, with a staleness as if the air had been trapped for decades. I clicked on my light and there was nothing but a narrow roofspace. Hmmm. 
 
 Looking around with the flashlight I could n't see anything. Wooden rafters and grey, crumbly roof insulation in all directions. Swooshing the light around with disappointment I caught sight of a small shoebox. It was squishy throught the manhole, but I crawled up onto my stomach and reached for the box. Puffs of smoke-like-dust clouded up around every movement. 
 
 The cardboard had hardened like a thin piece of wood and I gently lifted the lid up. Inside was a a bundle of papers and a small, faded envelope, which I reached for. Inside were some old, sepia photos from when my parents were young. Circa 1970's they looked so young and happy, the ridiculous clothes they wore matched their beautiful, loving smiles that I never remember seeing. One photo of them arm in arm dancing, another of them holding hands in a dusty country town... my heart warmed to see them like this, especially considering the recent loss, and I could help but laugh and cry to myself. 
 
 After absorbing the third photo I turned to the next one and they were sitting together on a big brown couch, cuddle up close together, holding a baby. The next photo was of mum holding the same baby in her arms... what? 
 
 The papers were a birth certificate and a death certificate for Arthur Hille, born 6th June, 1979, died February 3nd 1982 from severe bruising and internal bleeding from a car accident. The older brother I never knew I had. 
 

