Page 131 of Glitched Play

Sharing that story would make it belong to everyone.

"I'm thinking about it."

Dad nods. "I figured you were."

He doesn't press, never has. He’s the strong silent type when it comes to dishing out advice. Instead, he sets his mug in the sink.

"You didn't drive all the way over here just for my opinion."

"No."

He smiles knowingly.

"It's downstairs."

The basement smells exactly the way I remember.

Concrete.

Cardboard.

Fresh-cut wood.

Shelves line every wall, each one labeled in Dad's neat handwriting. Christmas. Camping. School. Sports. Memories.

He walks to the back corner and rests one hand on a weathered brown leather suitcase.

"There it is."

I haven't touched it in years.

The leather is darker than I remember, worn smooth around the handle from decades of use. One brass latch carries a tiny scratch that catches the light, and the corners have softened with age.

"You know," Dad says quietly, "I always wondered why you wanted this."

"I needed something to raise one of my monitors."

He smiles.

"I know that's what you told me."

"It was."

"It was also the one thing in the house nobody would dare throw away if it was holding up your computer."

I don't answer because he's right. Back then I convinced myself I wasn't saving my mom’s luggage that had made it through four kids. I wanted a little piece of her in my room. But I told myself I was solving a practical problem.

Only now do I realize those were never two different things.

Dad rests a hand on my shoulder. "You've always loved differently than the rest of us."

The words settle somewhere deep inside me.

"I’m sorry I wasn't always good at recognizing it."

I nod. Neither was I.

He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. "Take it home."