Chapter 3 - The Storage Locker of Memories
Patrick dialed my private cell phone forty-seven times over the next two hours, but every single call went straight to a generic automated voicemail that had never been customized. When he realized I had placed his number on a permanent block list, he drove his luxury SUV toward the local county clerk's office, only to be redirected to a regional commercial storage facility located three miles outside the lakeside village.
Sitting on the passenger seat of his car was a single plain white envelope that David Henderson had handed him through a cracked window before threatening to unleash his dog.
Written on the front in my neat, elegant cursive was one word: Patrick.
Inside, there was a single brass key tagged with the number 402, along with a receipt for a three-month prepaid lease at the North Shore Self-Storage Depot. Beneath the receipt was a short, handwritten note:
“You told me that Megan only wanted her family on the cruise because that was ‘how it should be.’ I took your words to heart. A house is meant for family. Since you decided that I am merely a convenient bank account rather than your mother, I decided to return your property. Everything you and Megan left in my home has been neatly packed and placed inside Unit 402. The rent is paid through November. After that, the account is yours to manage. Enjoy your adulthood.”
When Patrick and Megan arrived at the industrial storage facility, the reality of what they had lost hit them like a physical blow. Unit 402 was packed floor to ceiling with sturdy cardboard boxes.
Patrick stepped inside the dusty concrete locker, his heart sinking into his stomach. Stacked near the front were Megan’s designer winter coats, the children’s waterskis, the spare golf clubs, and box after box labeled Primary Bedroom Renovation.
Megan ripped open one of the boxes, pulling out her carefully curated mood boards—the swatches of Italian marble, the architectural sketches showing the expansion of the primary suite, and the color palette labeled Future Executive Office.
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At the very bottom of the box was an unopened envelope containing my late husband George's gold pocket watch, accompanied by a post-it note in my handwriting: “Your father worked sixty hours a week so you could attend private school debt-free. He never asked for an upgraded cabin, and he never left his mother behind on the dock.”
Patrick sank down onto a cardboard crate, burying his face in his rough hands, the silence of the concrete corridor ringing in his ears.
