The garage was cold, colder than I had expected. The air smelled stale, a mix of dust and old cardboard that hadn’t been touched in years. Boxes were stacked high against the walls, their labels faded and some completely blank. This was a job I had been avoiding for ages, but today, something had pushed me to do it.
I knelt by the nearest box. Its edges were soft and worn, evidence of how often it had been shuffled from one place to another. Carefully, I pulled it open. The contents were like a time capsule of my life, each item holding a memory.
The first thing I found was an old sketchbook. Flipping through it brought a bittersweet smile to my face. There were portraits of classmates, messy drawings of my secret crushes, and clumsy attempts at capturing famous faces. My eyes stopped on one sketch—a boy’s face. The lines were uneven, his expression a little too serious, but I remembered his carefree laugh like it was yesterday. It echoed in my mind, taking me back to high school.
Underneath the sketchbook was Simon, a stuffed monkey I hadn’t seen in years. His fur was matted, no longer soft, but he still felt comforting as I held him. I hugged him gently, whispering, “Simon, if only you could talk, you’d have so many stories to tell.”
I set Simon aside and reached for another box. But this one was different. The label, though faded, was written in my handwriting: Ross’s Things. My hands froze, and a lump formed in my throat. Memories of my husband, Ross, came rushing back. It had been seven years since cancer took him, but the grief was always there, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
With trembling fingers, I opened the box. Right on top was his favorite sweater—the deep green one he wore all the time. I picked it up and pressed it to my face, closing my eyes. A faint whiff of his cologne, or maybe just a trick of my mind, hit me. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I clutched the fabric.
At the very bottom of the box was something even more precious. A small jewelry box, its surface carved with delicate floral patterns. I held it as though it might break, tracing the carvings with my fingertips. Ross had given me this on our tenth anniversary. He had smiled so warmly when he handed it to me and said, “A decade down, a lifetime to go.”
My breath hitched as the weight of loss settled over me. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t care. This little box was more than just an object—it was a piece of Ross, a piece of our love.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
The voice startled me. I turned to see Miley, my fifteen-year-old daughter, standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with concern.
I hurriedly placed the items back in the box and wiped my face. “It’s nothing, sweetheart,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Just going through some old things.”
“But you’re crying,” she pointed out, stepping closer.
“It’s just the dust,” I lied, brushing my hands on my jeans. “This place is filthy. Long overdue for a clean-up.”
Miley looked unconvinced but didn’t push. “Have you packed your things for school tomorrow?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
She raised an eyebrow. “Mom, it’s Saturday tomorrow.”
“Oh, right,” I mumbled. My mind was too clouded to think straight.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked softly.
“I’m fine, honey,” I said, forcing a smile. “Now, off to bed.”
She hesitated but finally left. I sat there for a long time, my hand resting on the closed box. It wasn’t just filled with objects—it held memories, love, and moments I could never replace.
The next day, after a tiring visit to my mother’s house, I returned home to a shocking sight. The front yard was bustling with people browsing items displayed on folding tables. My heart sank as I realized these weren’t just random things—they were from the garage.
“Miley!” I called, rushing over. My voice was sharper than I intended.
She stood behind a table, smiling proudly, holding a wad of cash. “Mom! Look how much I made!” she exclaimed.
I felt my chest tighten. “You sold my things?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
Her smile faded. “They were just old things, Mom. You always say we should get rid of stuff we don’t use.”
My pulse quickened. “Miley, the jewelry box. The one Dad gave me—where is it?”
She looked confused for a moment, then said, “Oh… a little girl bought that. She lives down the street.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Without saying another word, I turned and hurried to the house Miley pointed out. I knocked on the door, my heart pounding. When a man answered, I explained everything. At first, he looked skeptical, but eventually, he softened.
“Charlotte,” he called, “can you bring the box you got earlier?”
A little girl appeared, clutching the jewelry box tightly. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she said, “It’s so pretty. I love it.”
I crouched down, my voice trembling. “It was a gift from someone very special to me,” I explained. “But it makes me happy to see how much you love it.”
She hesitated, then handed it to me. “You can have it back.”
I smiled through my tears. “No, sweetheart. I think it belongs with you now.”
As I walked home that evening, the air felt lighter. I knew Ross would have wanted me to find peace, and somehow, leaving the box with Charlotte felt like a step toward that.
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