Chapter 4 - Packing Up the Memories
The storm arrived exactly forty-eight hours later, just as Marcus had predicted.
Linda and I were in the middle of lunch when the roar of Ethan’s sports car echoed in the driveway. A moment later, the sound of the front door handle being violently rattled shook the entryway. When the electronic keypad didn't respond to his newly programmed code, Ethan began pounding furiously on the wood.
"Tom! Open this door!" he roared.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, stood up, and looked at Linda. She looked anxious, but she didn't look weak anymore. She nodded at me, a silent signal of solidarity.
I opened the door. Ethan stood there, his face flushed red, holding a crumpled legal document in his hand—Marcus’s formal notice. Ashley was standing a few paces back, looking over her shoulder as if worried the neighbors were watching.
"What the hell is this?" Ethan yelled, shoving the paper toward my chest. "You terminated my management agreement for the duplex? That’s four thousand dollars a month in income! I have bills, Dad! I have a car payment due next week!"
"Then I suggest you sell the car, Ethan," I said, blocking the doorway. "Or perhaps you can get a second job. That duplex belongs to me. The income from it was meant to assist with your mother's medical expenses, which you so thoughtfully reminded her of when you said she was 'living off your future.'"
"You ruined everything!" Ashley shrieked, stepping forward. "We already signed a contract with an interior designer for this house! We paid a non-refundable deposit! You are ruining our lives!"
"You ruined your own lives the moment you decided to treat your mother like an inconvenience," I told her, my voice cutting through her hysterics. "You didn't build this house. You didn't sweat in the summer heat to pay the mortgage. You didn't spend nights crying when the economy crashed, wondering if we’d lose everything. You just showed up at the finish line and demanded the trophy."
"Dad, please," Ethan’s tone suddenly shifted from anger to desperation. The reality of his financial ruin was staring him in the face. "We are going to go under. If I don't get the equity from this house, or the income from the duplex, the bank is going to repossess our cars. We might lose our condo."
I looked at my son. I looked closely at his eyes, searching for any sign of genuine remorse for what he had done to his mother. But all I saw was the panic of a trapped animal concerned only with its own skin.
"If you need money, Ethan, you work for it," I said. "Just like I did. Just like your mother did when she worked two jobs to put you through private schooling."
"I am your son!" he screamed, his anger flaring back up. "You’re supposed to help me!"
"I am helping you," I said softly. "I'm stopping you from becoming a completely worthless human being. But since you love this house so much, I have one final gift for you."
I reached behind the door and pulled out two large, heavy cardboard boxes. I dropped them at his feet. They clattered loudly on the porch.
"What is this?" Ethan muttered.
May you like
"It’s your childhood," I said. "Your baseball trophies, your old yearbooks, the drawings you made that your mother kept in the attic for twenty years. We packed them up this morning. If you ever come back to this property without our express permission, I will file trespassing charges. Take your memories, Ethan. Because right now, that's all you have left of this family."
I shut the door before he could answer, throwing the heavy deadbolt into place. Through the glass, I watched Ethan stare at the boxes for a long time before he finally picked them up, threw them into the trunk of his expensive car, and drove away.
