I was wondering about what it could be. Are we getting a dog or a cat? Were we moving? Were we going on vacation? I was thinking of all the possibilities when she said it was about our family. I sat quiet. I couldn’t think of anything that could be so serious that she wouldn’t just tell me about it.

I remembered that night so vividly that sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday. That was the night my mom told me that the author of the books she read me every night was my ancestor. I didn’t know what to say and I still don’t know what to say to this day. I was so stunned that I just sat there the whole time opened mouthed and staring at my mother.

“Polly! Is that you?” my mother yelled from the kitchen. I didn’t feel like talking to her about this so I just ran to my room. I sat in my room staring at the same spot I stare at when I can’t sleep. The spot that I stare at when I feel unhappiness. The spot that I stare at when I feel anger. The spot that I stare at when I feel scared. The spot I stared at when I felt alone. The wall I made the dent in on that same night.
I just stared at the wall after my mother left. I then had a rush of mixed emotions that I had no idea I had bottled up inside me. I felt scared at what people would think if they found out. I felt alone. I felt anger that nobody told me anything about this until now. I didn’t think and spaced out. When I came back my room was a mess and there it was. There by the wall lay a book I recognized quickly. It was a book of all of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. I looked up at the wall and there was a small little dent small enough to barely notice it if you were just glancing in that direction, but it was still big enough to see well.