Michael made dinner, but I could not eat. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the plate in front of me, while he tried to encourage me to take a few bites.
“I can't,” I whispered.
“You don't have to finish it. Just try a little.”
I shook my head.
He sat across from me, looking exhausted and helpless.
“I wish I could fix this.”
“So do I.”
Later, I went upstairs and opened my phone's photo gallery. I had digital photographs of some of the things in the boxes, but not nearly enough. There were pictures of my parents at family gatherings, a few images of my mother in her wedding dress, and a photograph of me as a child holding the stuffed rabbit.
I enlarged the pictures until the images became blurry.
In one photograph, my father was laughing with his head tilted back. My mother was standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.
I stared at their faces.
I had been so careful with the physical photographs that I had never considered the possibility that they might disappear. I had assumed that storing them safely was enough.
Now I wished I had scanned every page of every album.
I wished I had taken more pictures of the ordinary things: the watch resting on the bedside table, the handwriting on the birthday cards, the small repairs my father had made to the rabbit.
I wished I had done a hundred things differently.
But regret could not return what was gone.
That night, I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the empty shelves in the attic. I heard Linda's voice saying that I should have labeled the boxes better. I remembered how casually she had described throwing away objects that had carried me through twelve years of grief.
Around two in the morning, Michael woke and found me sitting beside the window.
“Claire?”
I turned toward him.
“I'm sorry I woke you.”
“You didn't.”
He came over and sat beside me.
“Do you want to talk?”
I shook my head, then changed my mind.
“Do you remember the rabbit?”
He smiled faintly.
“The one your dad repaired?”
I nodded.
“When we first started dating, I was embarrassed to tell you how much it meant to me. I thought you'd think I was childish.”
“Claire, you told me the story about your dad fixing its ear. I remember.”
“I used to sleep with it when I was little. After they died, I couldn't bear to throw it away. Sometimes, when I had a bad day, I'd take it out of the box and hold it for a few minutes.”
Michael listened without interrupting.
“I know it sounds ridiculous.”
“It doesn't.”
“I kept it because it was one of the last things he had chosen for me. I know it wasn't magical. I know it was just a stuffed animal. But he bought it when I was a baby. He held it in his hands. He repaired it when I tore it. He loved me.”
My voice broke again.
“And now it's gone.”
Michael pulled me into his arms.
“You don't have to justify loving something that reminds you of your father.”
I pressed my face against his shoulder and cried quietly.
For the first time since the accident twelve years earlier, I felt as though I had lost my parents all over again.
The next morning, I woke before sunrise.
My eyes were swollen, my throat hurt, and my body felt heavy from the sleepless night. Michael had fallen asleep beside me, but I could not bring myself to lie still any longer.
I went downstairs and made coffee, though I had no appetite.
The house felt different.
The silence was no longer peaceful. It seemed to echo with everything that had been taken away.
I stood at the kitchen window, holding a warm mug between my hands, and wondered how I was supposed to move forward.
I had survived the death of my parents. I had built a career, married someone who loved me, and created a home of my own. I had learned to live with grief, even when it returned unexpectedly.
But I had never expected someone inside my own family to destroy the things that helped me remember them.
My phone rang.
Michael was still upstairs, so I assumed it was a call from work. I glanced at the screen and saw his name.
That confused me.
Why was he calling when he was only one floor above me?
I answered.
“Michael?”
His voice sounded strange. It was tight and unsteady, as though he had been trying to find the right words and had failed.
“Claire,” he said, “have you heard what happened to my mother?”
I froze.
“What do you mean?”
He took a breath.
“Something happened last night. My aunt called me a few minutes ago.”
I set my coffee down.
“Is Linda okay?”
“I don't know how to explain it yet. But you need to sit down.”
My heart began to pound.
“Michael, you're scaring me. What happened?”
He paused.
“Apparently, she received a call from someone she hasn't spoken to in years. A lawyer. The call was about my grandfather's estate.”
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything, apparently.”
I heard him moving around upstairs.
“I'm coming down,” he said. “We need to talk.”
A minute later, he appeared in the kitchen holding his phone. His face was pale, and he looked as though he had aged several years overnight.
“Linda has been expecting a financial settlement from my grandfather's estate,” he explained. “The family has been dealing with it for months. She believed the paperwork was almost finished.”
I nodded slowly.
Michael continued.
“Last night, she called my aunt to ask about the final documents. My aunt told her that the lawyer had tried to contact her several times. There was a problem with some paperwork, and they needed Linda to respond before the deadline.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I don't know all the details yet. But my aunt said Linda had ignored the letters because she assumed everything was being handled.”
I stared at him.
“So what happened?”
“Apparently, the deadline passed yesterday.”
I sat down.
“Is she losing the settlement?”
“That's what she thinks. The lawyer told her that the process may have to be reviewed, and there could be serious consequences if she missed the required steps. She spent half the night trying to contact everyone involved.”