My uncle and I lugged it out to the truck, and it was way too heavy for an old piece of furniture. That was the first thing that struck me. An empty wardrobe with loose doors, a broken leg, and years of damp rot shouldn’t feel like it was loaded with bricks. My uncle, my dad’s brother, a man of few words at the best of times, grunted as we settled it onto some moving blankets so the cherry red paint wouldn’t keep flaking off with every jostle.
Does this thing have cinder blocks in it or what, he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. I didn’t answer. I just looked back up at the porch. My mom was still standing there, gripping the wooden railing tight enough that her knuckles had gone pale. She didn’t look sad. She didn’t look exhausted, though she should have, forty days out from the funeral, forty days of casseroles and condolence cards and a house that still smelled faintly like my father’s aftershave. She had something else written across her face entirely, an ugly, creeping nervousness, the kind a mother tries hard to hide when she knows the son she least expects is about to discover something she wanted left buried.
If you don’t want it later, just dump it out by the alley, my sister in law called from the living room, her eyes still glued to her phone. Just don’t try to bring it back here. My sister Sarah let out a quiet, mocking laugh from somewhere behind her. My brother Michael didn’t even bother lifting his head from whatever he was doing at the kitchen table. I slammed the tailgate shut without a single word.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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