It was about 10:30pm when we found a typed letter propped up against a pillow on Jordan’s bed. The letter just shortly noted that she was going to our fathers in Arizona and she thought it was about time she met him. The end of the letter said “P.S. I couldn’t find my cell phone so see u guys when I get back.”

“But why in the world?” I blurted quickly.

“Well, that was her choice, she is full grown now and she can make her own choices,” my mother noted unexpectedly.

“Yeah, I guess your right,” I replied flatly as I turned out of her room and up to the attic.

The attic has been my get away, the place I can be alone with out being away, my place to think. But tonight I go up there for a different reason, to find out the answer that is burning up in my head. Who is my father?
But the real question is what did he do and why is he the way he is? My mother rarely spoke of my father. Never once did Jordan or I hear about his family, what he was like growing up, or anything of that sort. All we knew was that he lived in Arizona and that he moved there because he was an Artist.

The most common answer to the question “What was dad like?” my mother would softly reply “He didn’t want a family,”

From what I knew about my father, I didn’t want to know more about him or to get to know him, but Jordan was a different story. Every holiday Jordan would write to him, and always he would answer.

I envied my father. The only person in the world I could truly say I hated. At first when I was younger it was jealousy; he gave Jordan this, gave me nothing. He always writes letters to Jordan, and not once was there a letter postmarked to me. But by Jordan’s and I 15th birthday the envy quickly shifted into hate in one short phone call.


It was the morning of our 15th birthday party we were decorating for the party all morning, but it was time for us get ready. Jordan anxiously got to take a shower first.

As soon as Jordan jumped into the shower the phone rang. I ran across the house swiftly and answered the phone.

“Hello! You have reached the home of the best partying 15 year olds of the world! How may I help you?” I answered hysterically thinking it was my best friend Mike.

“Mike, missy, Martha, oh what ever your stupid name is, give the phone to your sister!” my father demanded harshly.

“Uuuuuuuuummmmm….. Well, she is kind of….. Not uuummmm…” I muttered as my words trailed off.

“God, I swear you get stupider every day! Do I have to spell it out for you? GIVE THE PHONE TO YOUR SISTER!!!! NOW!” he bellowed tauntingly into the phone.

I guess I just had enough.

“SHE IS IN THE SHOWER!”
I screamed dramatically.

“Don’t you ever speak to me that way AGAIN! No, you know what Mikki don’t even speak to me, don’t even think about be, because you make me sick!” my father yelled into the phone. That phone call quickly ended with a pleasant click of the End button, and that was the last time I talked to my father.

I never told Jordan or my mother about that phone call but I could just tell they knew.


I make up the tattered worn stairs in a matter of seconds. When I make it to the top stairs I am face to face with darkness, the hardest staring contest to win, I don’t think I’ll make it out alive until my hand finally takes control and quickly turns on the light switch. But yet I am still face to face with my past and faded memories.

I look around and see things from strollers and tea cups,
To metal baseball bats and torn tee shirts. I shuffle around the attic until I see what I was looking for. The Failure box.

The Failure Box is a trunk that belongs to my mother. Jordan and I have never seen what it contains but we know it is full of junk and paper that was my mothers and fathers during their marriage. The trunk was full, very full. Just looking at it you can see the sides start to bulge out.

We asked my mother many times what it contained but she would just say;

“The Failure Box contains stuff you two beautiful young ladies do not need to know about now or ever, it hides all the stuff I wish you two not experience. This trunk contains all the sick hate and greed that makes the real world harsh and cruel. And that is why it stays shut, to shield you two from the hate of the world.”

But my mother now knows that the trunk has been open for Jordan and I, the trunk was opened two short years ago, when Jordan grew up and entered the real world. Where Jordan and I have suffered and been hated enough.

Tonight I will open the Failure Box for the first time. How can I grieve anymore then I already have? Its time for the secrets of the trunk become unraveled and answer my burning questions.

I pull and pull until the trunk is directly in front of me. I kneel down and turn the untouched rusted padlock of the trunk over in my quivering hands. This will not unlock very easily, I think over and over in my head until the answer comes racing towards me. I turn around and dive for the baseball bat.

I grip and twist the cool moist metal in my hands, position my feet parallel, kick the dust off the scuffed flooring. I turn and hit the padlock to second base. It was so rusted it quickly split in half and fell to the floor.
The End