Page after page of receipts—every major purchase I’d made since moving into this house—each one with my name printed clearly at the top. Some were years old, the paper starting to yellow at the edges. Others were recent, still white and crisp.
Television. Sofa. Appliances. Furniture.
I even had the receipt for the down payment on the house itself—the cashier’s check with my name written at the bottom.
I flipped through them slowly, not reading every word, just remembering. Each piece of paper represented a moment when I’d thought I was helping, when I’d believed I was being a good mother, a good grandmother, a valued member of the family.
But looking at them now, they felt different.
They felt like proof.
I closed the folder and held it in my lap, feeling its weight. Not heavy, really, but substantial. Important.
“It’s all mine anyway,” I whispered to the empty room.
The words surprised me. Not because they weren’t true, but because saying them out loud made something shift inside my chest—something that had been tight for a very long time loosened just a fraction.
I stood up and walked to my closet, pulling out my phone from where I’d left it charging overnight. I didn’t use it much, mostly just to call Dorothy or check the weather, but I knew how to look things up when I needed to.
I typed slowly, my fingers not quite used to the small keyboard.
moving company near me
Several results appeared. I scrolled through them, reading reviews, looking at ratings. One had particularly good comments. Family-owned, people said. Professional. Respectful.
I tapped the phone number.
It rang three times before someone answered. A man’s voice, friendly and alert despite the early hour.
“Good morning, Prestige Moving Services. How can I help you?”
I took a breath. “Good morning. I need to schedule a move tomorrow, if possible.”
There was a brief pause. “Tomorrow? That’s Thanksgiving, ma’am. We do work holidays, but there’s an additional fee.”
“That’s fine,” I said, my voice calm and certain. “I can pay whatever it costs.”
“All right then.” I could hear him clicking on a keyboard. “Can I get your name and address?”
I gave him the information, speaking clearly, taking my time.
“And how much are we moving? Full house or just a few items?”
I looked around my bedroom, then thought of the living room, the kitchen, the garage.
“Quite a bit,” I said. “I’ll have a list ready for you when you arrive.”
“Perfect. We can have a crew there by 8:00 in the morning. Does that work?”
“That works beautifully,” I said.
We finished the details and I hung up. The house was still quiet around me, but the silence felt different now. Not empty. Not sad.
Just waiting.
I walked to my desk and pulled out a notepad and pen. At the top of the first page, I wrote: Items to move. Then I started writing every single thing I’d ever paid for.
I sat at my desk for the rest of that morning, the blue folder open beside me, my pen moving steadily across the paper. It’s funny how much you can forget when you’re not paying attention. But when you sit down and really look—really remember—it all comes back.
