“That Money Belongs To The Family,” Dad Roared, Swinging The Metal Wrench Into My Face. My Jawbone Br0ke In Four Places, Teeth Scattering Across The Driveway. I Photographed Everything Before Losing Consciousness. The Craniofacial ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ Consortium Convened… “Fourteen Surgeons Reviewing Weapon ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ With Permanent Disfigurement – Aggravated Battery Documentation.”

My mother had been gone for twenty-three days, and her ranch-style house in Fairwood Hills still smelled like the specific blend of almond lotion, lemon wax, and the lavender spray she used before service at Grace Chapel.

I spent the first week walking through the rooms with a yellow notepad, cataloging mundane items like casserole dishes and winter coats. By the second week, the list changed from objects to memories, noting things like the stained apron she wore every Christmas or the ceramic piggy bank she used for the “rainy day fund” that usually went toward my school trips.

By the third weekend, the process of grieving had officially transitioned into the brutal logistics of sorting through a life.

My sister, Melanie, showed up that first Saturday wearing oversized designer glasses and a look of deep annoyance, as if being there was a massive inconvenience to her social calendar. She helped move exactly three small boxes, wept briefly over a tin of old polaroids, and then spent the rest of the afternoon smoking on the porch while scrolling through her phone.