With my hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans, I stroll around the house, taking inventory of all that needs to be done.
Mom had done well for herself in real estate, so she made sure the inside was updated with the latest interior design and paint colors. She’d always been a neat freak, cleaning the house on her days off as if the Queen of England herself was about to stop by for a visit.
I dreaded those days she was off from work. As soon as I’d walk in the door after school, she’d scream at me about her being the only one in the house who takes care of it, so I’d have to drop everything and clean with her. It didn’t matter whether I had a ton of homework or finals. Once I started high school and had football practice almost daily, it was easier.
The walls are covered with art, and the house is beautifully decorated, but she barely hung any pictures of me. There may be a couple of framed ones from when I was a kid, but most of the photographs were shoved into binders or boxes. That reminds me that I need to start taking pictures of Braeden and set them out, which will make him feel more at home. Hopefully.
There isn’t much I want to keep. Whomever I hire can sort through the crap and sell it all, for all I care. They can donate all her clothes and shit.
I head to the living room, which holds built-in bookcases. I kneel, open the bottom cabinets, and pull out all the photo albums and photo boxes. Those can come with me. I don’t want strangers handling those. It grosses me out for some reason. I’ll also need to sort through her paperwork and legal documents.
There’s one album that has a familiar cloth cover in pale blue. I open it to find my baby pictures. I was born in 1986, so the images are from an old camera. Mom looked happy, at least when I was born. I don’t know what happened to her or what caused her to be the way she was. No one is born an asshole or a narcissist, at least not that I’m aware of.
As the years went on, the worse she got. The worse she got, the more I withdrew. I know deep down that I won’t miss her. Despite my anger, I’m also partially relieved that it’s over. That right there makes me feel like a fucking asshole.
I slam the book shut and stack the albums and boxes in a pile to take home later, then I head upstairs to my old bedroom. The space makes me anxious, too, but not as much as the rest of the house. My bedroom had been my safe space until Mom started intruding on it.
Nothing in herehas changed all that much, except the bedding is different, newer. The furniture is the same, with the same arrangement as when I left for New Orleans. I stayed home during my college and grad school years. As much as I wanted a place of my own, home was free and close to school.
The room is empty of all my old belongings. No doubt, Mom packed it all up or threw it out. Who knows? I open the closet door to find plastic bins full of crap—my crap. I drag out a bin, set it on the bed, and open it to find carefully wrapped model cars. I used to love building them when I was young, dreaming of the day I’d have one of my own.
The first one I unwrap is a grass green replica of a1970 Dodge Charger. For a kid of ten, I wasn’t too bad at making them. I wrap it back up, tuck it into the bin, and close the lid. I’ll take that back with me, too. Maybe Braeden would like them. If not, I can give them to Harrison and Sawyer. Hell, perhaps the hellcat would like them.
In another bin is all my artwork. Jesus. It’s literally all of it, from kindergarten through high school. I used to love art, and I wasn’t too bad at it. Now I draw buildings, putting my love of art into a career.
In another box are trophies, ribbons, and pictures of my friends. I grab a photo of my best friend, Greg, with Anna, who’d been his girlfriend at the time. We lost touch when they moved away to California during our senior year. God, I looked so young. It’s amazing how much one changes over two decades.
Mom kept everything of mine. She threw nothing away. What does that mean? I think maybe she loved me in her own way. She just sucked at showing it, or didn’t know how. She had her good moments. It hadn’tallbeen bad, but I’d suffered enough that most of the good was forgotten or lost in memories somewhere in my brain. Sitting in this house, all I can think about is the shit that I’ve gone through.
I’ll take mythings back home after I return to Houston for the funeral. I flew here, so I can’t carry it back this trip. Nothing of hers holds any profound sentimentality, so I’ll get rid of it all.
My phone suddenly buzzes. I pull it out of my back pocket to see it’s Seth, my adorable preppy tiger. I smile at his thoughtfulness in checking up on me.
Tiger: How are you?
Me: Surprisingly okay. A little anxious, but that’s how I
always feel when I’m here.
Tiger: We can snuggle on the couch, drink white wine, and
talk about it when you get home.
Me: That sounds really nice.
And it does. I thought that part of me was lost after Grant, but I’m glad that he hadn’t destroyed all of me. Or maybe Seth found it in the trenches of my heart.
Me: How’s Brae?
Tiger: He’s… okay. A little stressed without you here. He
cares about you.
Me: I don’t know about that. I’m all he has.
Tiger: He cares.
Me: Thanks for that. I’ll see you soon, baby.
