His flannel shirts.
The leather jacket he wore every autumn.
The ties he collected over decades.
Clothes that still carried the shape of a man I had never stopped missing.
I opened the door.
Nothing.
They had taken those too.
My knees gave way.
I hit the cold tile floor, and a sound came out of me that I didn’t recognize.
Half sob.
Half scream.
It felt as though years of swallowing hurt had finally torn something open inside my chest.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
Then I saw the note.
Folded neatly on the kitchen windowsill.
Placed carefully, almost politely.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Ryan’s handwriting.
My only son.
“Mom, we needed the money. Brittany has always dreamed of seeing Paris. She deserves it. We sold the furniture. Don’t worry—it was just old stuff anyway. We’ll be back in two weeks. Love you.”
I read it again.
Then again.
Old stuff.
My wedding crystal.
My grandmother’s bookcase.
The piano Tom played on winter evenings.
Family albums.
Baby clothes.
Letters.
Memories no insurance company could replace.
