People always talk about happy memories or sad ones or even angry ones. But why doesn’t anyone ever talk about the ordinary ones. The ones that hit you on a Tuesday afternoon while you’re driving down Main Street. They aren’t sad or happy. They’re just… memories of a life that doesn’t exist anymore. The blue floral couch in the den. The smell of chicken baking. The ringer on the phone in the office.
They hit me and I wonder if any of it was real. That life. That family. That memory.
Or am I just filling in blank spaces with normalcy?
This was never a happy home, but it was home.
So, I walk up the front steps and stare at the red door, hoping a memory—sad, happy or angry—hits me.
Nothing comes up but the distant sound of church bells ringing. Must be noon.
I unlock the door and push it open.
The afternoon light pours into the entryway, dust floating through the air like everything’s been frozen since I last left.
The rooms all look the same. Gold chandeliers. Floral prints on every piece of furniture. Gaudy wood tables. Family pictures framed in ornate frames.
My mom loved this life. Even the dark parts.
She loved the parties and the money and the shopping sprees.
She loved my dad, too.
But I wonder if he ever loved her.
Or enough to not cheat on her.
I think I already know that answer.
Archibald Allred only loves himself.
Still, why did my mom risk all of this? She risked her home, her son, and her reputation to hurt Ingrid.
I can’t imagine why anyone would hate someone their child loves. And I never understood it. Ingrid is so easy to love. She’s thoughtful, easy-going, and kind. Well, when you haven’t pissed her off.
I wanted a life with her—a future—but my mom made that nearly impossible. She was always trying to break us up or point out Ingrid’s flaws. She never got to know her. Not really. I don’t think she ever gave her a single birthday or Christmas present even though Ingrid always brought her one.
If I’m lucky enough to have kids one day, I already know that no matter who they love, I’ll love them like my own. And if I don’t like the person they’ve chosen to spend their life with, I’ll fake it. I’ll make sure they know that no matter who they choose to be with, I will love them because they love them.
My feet stop in front of the office. Mom’s office.
The last time I kissed Ingrid was right here in this room.
That memory hits all at once. It’s not a happy one, but a sad one.
We never know when something will be the last time. Last kiss. Last dance. We definitely know the first time. First kiss. First love. But the last time? We don’t know until it is.
The desk is dusty, but there’s an envelope that looks like it was recently placed on the top.
My name is written across the front in my mom’s handwriting.
Cash.
I pick it up and stare at it.
I’d like to think my mom hasn’t always been selfish, but I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t always about her.
Even now.
