“It’s just a gesture,” I said. “She sends it with love.”
Emily let out a short laugh.
“Love?” she repeated. “That’s a strange way to show it.”
Silence settled between us.
Heavy.
She sighed, like she was done with the conversation.
Then she bent down, picked up the entire box, and walked toward the trash.
“Emily…” I said.
But it came out too quiet.
Too late.
She didn’t stop.
She opened the lid.
And dumped everything in.
The sound was sharp—eggs cracking, plastic crinkling, the jar rolling until it hit the bottom.
It was over in seconds.
She closed the trash lid and wiped her hands.
“There. That’s better.”
I stood there, staring.
Not moving.
Not even sure what hurt more—the smell still hanging in the air… or what we had just thrown away with it.
Emily went back to the kitchen like nothing had happened.
I stayed.
Something tight formed in my chest.
Like something important had just slipped through my hands.
I walked slowly to the trash can.
I didn’t open it at first.
I just stood there.
Then I noticed it.
A small corner of paper, barely visible beneath everything else.
I crouched down, lifted the lid, and reached in.
It was an envelope.
Small. Taped shut. My name written across it.
My mom’s handwriting.