Chapter 3 - The Box in the Garage
Aunt Tasha arrived Saturday morning carrying a canvas tote bag and the kind of expression that made people answer questions honestly.
She was Simone's older sister, a middle-school counselor who had spent much of the previous year helping Nia manage the grief nobody else seemed to know how to discuss.
Andre opened the door.
“Tasha.”
“Morning, Andre. Where's Nia?”
“Upstairs.”
“Good. First, I need to know where Simone's things are.”
Andre glanced toward the kitchen.
Monique was sitting at the counter with her coffee.
“Most of it is in the garage,” Andre answered.
“Then let's go look.”
Monique set down her cup.
“I'm not sure why this needs to become a family investigation.”
Tasha regarded her calmly.
“Because Simone's daughter has a right to know what's happening to her mother's belongings.”
Nobody argued with that.
At least, not immediately.
Nia came downstairs holding the portrait against her chest.
Tasha opened her arms.
Nia stepped into them without speaking.
For a moment, they stayed that way.
Then Tasha kissed the top of her head.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let's see what we have.”
The garage smelled of cardboard and laundry detergent.
Several boxes had been stacked against the far wall.
Andre switched on the overhead light.
Nia moved toward the first box.
Inside were framed pictures, old birthday decorations, and a ceramic vase Simone had received from her mother.
The next contained folded blankets and a collection of family photo albums.
In a smaller box, Nia found a blue metal recipe tin.
Her breath caught.
“Mom's recipes.”
She lifted it carefully.
The tin had a small dent near the lid from the time Simone dropped it while rushing to make Thanksgiving dinner.
Nia opened it.
Dozens of handwritten recipe cards were arranged in uneven stacks.
She took out one marked CINNAMON FRENCH TOAST.
Beneath the ingredients, Simone had written:
Extra cinnamon for Nia. Less sugar for Andre, even though he'll complain.
Nia smiled through her tears.
“Dad always said it needed more sugar.”
Andre looked at the card.
For the first time since the previous afternoon, something softened in his face.
“She never listened to me.”
“She said you had the taste buds of a twelve-year-old.”
He almost laughed.
Then he saw Nia's tears and looked ashamed.
Tasha crouched beside another box.
“Andre, why is all of this out here?”
“We were organizing.”
“For what?”
Andre hesitated.
Monique had followed them into the garage and now stood near the doorway.
“We're updating the house,” she explained. “There's nothing wrong with that.”
Tasha held up a framed photograph.
It showed Simone and Andre on their wedding day.
“No,” Tasha said. “There isn't. But there's a difference between redecorating and removing someone's history.”
Monique stiffened.
“I'm his wife now.”
“And Simone is still Nia's mother.”
“That doesn't mean her belongings have to occupy every inch of this house.”
“They weren't occupying every inch,” Nia said.
Her voice was quieter than before.
But everyone heard her.
“They were on one wall.”
Andre closed his eyes briefly.
Tasha turned toward him.
“Tell me something. Did Monique make this decision alone?”
Andre looked at the boxes.
“No.”
Nia slowly lifted her head.
“What?”
“I agreed that we should change the living room.”
“And the garage?”
Andre swallowed.
“We talked about sorting through some of the other things too.”
Nia looked down at the recipe tin.
“So you knew.”
“I didn't understand how much it would hurt you.”
“You didn't ask.”
“I know.”
“No, Dad. You don't.”
She stood, holding the tin.
“When Mom died, everybody kept telling me we'd remember her together. You promised I wouldn't have to do it alone.”
Andre said nothing.
“And now you're helping someone pack her into boxes.”
Tasha stepped beside her niece.
“Next question,” she said to Andre. “What's happening to these boxes on Monday?”
Andre turned toward Monique.
Monique's jaw tightened.
“I made arrangements for a charity pickup. I was trying to be practical.”
“Did you tell him photographs and family albums were included?” Tasha asked.
Monique hesitated.
“I told him I was clearing out things we weren't using.”
Andre stared at her.
“Monique, I told you nothing personal was to be donated without asking me.”
“And I thought we'd already agreed we needed a fresh start.”
Nia understood something then.
Monique hadn't simply disliked the photographs.
She had wanted the entire house to stop showing evidence of the woman who came before her.
Nia put the recipe tin into Tasha's tote bag.
“I'm keeping this.”
Monique looked as though she might object.
But Andre spoke first.
“Of course you are.”
Nia barely looked at him.
May you like
She had finally heard her father defend one small piece of her mother.
What she didn't know was whether he would defend anything bigger.
