Chapter 1 - The Sound of Taped Cardboard
The tearing sound of brown packing tape echoed through the empty living room.
I held the heavy plastic tape gun with both hands, pressing down firmly along the center seam of the cardboard box. Inside were Walter’s vintage woodworking tools, wrapped carefully in old dish towels.
My cell phone sat on the bare oak mantelpiece, vibrating against the polished wood.
The screen lit up with a photo of Thomas taken five years ago at his college graduation. Beneath his face, the caller ID flashed persistently.
I set the tape gun down and wiped my dusty hands on my denim apron.
It had been forty-two days of absolute radio silence.
Forty-two days since Jenna posted a scathing status on social media calling me a heartless, selfish boomer who preferred hoarding money over helping her struggling family. Forty-two days since my number was blocked on their phones, social media accounts, and even the family photo-sharing stream.
I pressed the green button and lifted the receiver to my ear.
"Hello, Thomas."
His voice came through fast, breathless, and sharp with an irritation that sounded painfully familiar.
"Mom, finally. Why didn't you pick up on the first ring?"
He didn't ask how my arthritis was handling the damp November chill. He didn't ask how I was managing the anniversary of Walter's passing, which had come and gone two weeks earlier without a single card or text.
"I was busy, Thomas," I answered softly, looking around at the stacks of labeled boxes.
"Look, we don't have time to dwell on last month's argument," Thomas rushed on, background noise suggesting he was speaking from his car. "Jenna and I are in a serious bind. Her car transmission completely gave out on the freeway yesterday, and our quarterly property tax installment is due."
I listened quietly, the silence stretching between us like a frozen pond.
"We need six thousand dollars wired into our account by Friday afternoon, Mom," he stated, as casually as if he were asking me to pass the butter at Sunday dinner. "If we miss the tax deadline, the county slaps on an eight percent penalty."
I looked out the bay window at the front lawn. The bright red and white SOLD rider swung gently under the brisk autumn wind on the real estate post.
"Six thousand dollars is a great deal of money, Thomas," I said, my voice remarkably even.
"You have your pension, Mom! And Dad left you that life insurance policy!" he snapped, his patience evaporating in seconds. "It’s not like you’re doing anything with it sitting out there in the suburbs. Jenna said if you can't even help your only son keep a roof over his head, you’re practically disowning us."
"Jenna said that?"
"Yes, she did! And she’s right! We are family, Mom! Family helps family!"
I looked down at the closing documents resting on the kitchen counter, stamped with the buyer's wire confirmation from earlier that morning.
May you like
One million, eight hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cash.
"I won't be sending you six thousand dollars, Thomas," I said quietly.
