Immediately, my heart palpitated. My pulse quickened. Sweat began beading on my forehead, and I had yet to step foot on the wooden contraption.
As my kids watched on, I took one shaky step toward the gaping darkness. Now, I was breathing faster, wondering if there was an escape hatch somewhere close at hand. There wasn't.
For most of my life, I've been afraid of attics. And for good reason. As a young girl, my step brother had molested me over a span of about three years when I would visit my father for his court-ordered weekends. During one of these visits, my step brother, who was also a sadist, locked me in a dark attic, knowing the light didn't work. I was petrified. I'm still unclear as to how I escaped, as much of that part of my life is blocked out.
What I do know is that the fear stayed with me. My husband of nearly 13 years…