While I was away at college, I received a phone call in hushed tones from my younger sister. “Jill,” she whispered. “Dad was cleaning out a storage closet and found an old box of yours full of cards and letters.”
I went rigamortis stiff. Those weren’t just any cards and letters. They were Valentine and “Missing You” cards and hand-written love letters from my future husband. Private words I thought were safely hidden away in my parents’ home. Definitely not reading material for my Dad. He’d be two or three letters into reading before he figured out just what sort of collection he had his hands on. Ew!
But before I dropped dead from the horror, my sweet sister shushed me, “Don’t worry. I lied and told him the dishwasher was smoking. He ran to check it, and I grabbed the box. I’m hiding it under my bed until you come home again.”
I could just see my sister: crouched between the bed and the wall, slipping under her pink comforter for tent-like protection, disguising the box behind stuffed bears and bunnies.