It was the last thing we opened.

Cast carelessly next to our fireplace, it was tied with a simple red and white ribbon. The pair of scrapbooks had nearly been overlooked; but then I picked them up.

“What’s this?” I asked.

My Aunt Mary Ann stood up.

“I have to tell you the story,” she began. Hasn’t it always, in the 10 years of this quest to uncover my Grandpa Phil’s life, begun that way?

A few months ago, Nancy, Anna Mae’s oldest daughter, was cleaning out her home in Hatfield. Nancy was our host at the summer gathering that reunited the Brenckle and Brenckle/Venezia branches all those years ago. As she dug through her attic, she uncovered a packet of letters.

They were letters from my Grandpa Phil, and letters addressed to him. There were letters from Aunt Mary to her brothers.

They were, Mary Ann said, the answer to so many mysteries.

Thousands of hours of research could have never uncovered what was hiding in Nancy’s attic all these years. And now here they were — in the two purple-covered scrapbooks. They were mine (and my dad’s) because, well, they just had to come back home.

As Mary Ann unspooled her tale, I stared — open-mouthed and wide-eyed. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d hugged the books until I saw the groves in my arms. All I knew was that I felt, for a minute, as if I was hugging Grandpa, too.

When I opened the pages, the past was finally revealed. The letters, about a dozen in all, begin in April 1923 — just a short four months after the Brenckle fire and the trial surrounding it — and end just after the holidays in 1924.

The very first letter provides the answer to a thousand questions. Postmarked from Bellaire, Ohio, it is definitive proof that the boys were sent to live with their uncle, Ottavio — aka, the Uncle in Ohio, aka The Evil Uncle. The subsequent letters reveal him as the uncle who abused them and denied them basic love, affection and possibly food. Pasquale may have had problems, but the person who failed was undeniably Ottavio.

The first letter, addressed “Dear Mother” to Myrtle Brenckle, twists my heart in its earnestness. Phil speaks fondly of his memories of the farm and all the people there. He asks for the family (who had a farm in Hartville not too far from Bellaire) to come to visit. And, tantalizingly, there is this line: “I am glad you told Marion what I said.” There’s no indication in any of the other letters what that message was, but the way it’s written — just pushes me to believe that the conclusions I’ve drawn about her are accurate. And he closes it with two rows of Xs (hugs) for Anna Mae and Buddy.

The rest of the letters detail an amazing set of circumstances that, given their sheer incredibility, are leaving me wondering if I should include them in my book. I’ll just say that the many, many thoughts I had about how Grandpa’s life unfolded in the months after the fire are accurate.

The letters also give a peek into the relationship among the siblings. I’m tickled to see how accurately I’ve portrayed it. In one letter, Mary razzes her brothers for their less-than-stellar penmanship suggesting that she give them Palmer Method lessons as she does the little children she teaches at the Fresh Air Home.

“You won’t be afraid to write me now,” she asks. And closes the letter by asking “I haven’t hurt your feelings, have I?”

She advises Joe against running away (though I’m not sure if it’s from the Brenckles or their uncle). She thanks Phil for sending money and, over and over, wishes that they would visit and write more often. Phil’s letters to others give a small hint that the issue was not that he was unwilling, but that he lived with a guardian who refused to perform the most basic functions of family.

By the one-year anniversary of the devastating fire, the boys are safely ensconced as Brenckles, having been formally adopted in October of 1923.

As I wrote the first draft of my book, I felt as if there were times I wasn’t writing fiction so much as letting the truth filter through me. Well, these letters have me believing even more strongly that the forces that guided my pen weren’t just my over-active imagination.

Some might say that it’s just logical hypotheses, based on thorough research. But for me? I think it was a whole lot more than that.

I’ve been down in the dumps a bit, thinking how I could never get this manuscript to where I need it to be.

But these letters, they’re a sign. One more little nudge from Grandpa asking me to please keep going. This story matters. HIS story matters. And it matters to so many more people than just the dozen gathered around our Christmas tree.

So thank you, Aunt Mary Ann, for a gift that has no price but uncountable value. Thank you, Nancy, for pausing long enough to wonder if we would like to have these letters.

And, of course, thank you, Grandpa, for reaching out to once again take my hand and remind me family is the greatest gift of all.

I miss you. I miss Grammy something fierce. But I know you are together, and that you are with us all still.