A window with history

My father died when I was six, and my mother took a job as a caretaker for some offices in an old house.  My sister mother and I had one room with use of a kitchen and one bedroom in the attic.  Because it was a long way away from the living area, with only creaky empty offices between I was too frightened to be in the bedroom on my own and slept in a chair until my sister and mother went to bed.
I happened to park my car near the house today and looked up at the window and memories came flooding back.