Where Is My Daughter?

Cold Secrets

Sarah was haunted by the memories of the family she almost had. In the corners of her bedroom, she could see her husband playing with a daughter, letting her paint his nails and apply lipstick to his cheeks. In the backyard there was an abandoned swing set, where she could see her son trying to fly as high as he could go, while his father egged him on. On her bed, there was an entire side that should have been warm, but every night that she rolled onto it the cold feeling of the sheets against her skin only reminded her all of what she was missing.

Unable to cope with the memories, she made the decision to move out of her home and into a small, one bedroom apartment. A place that was more suited to her lonesome existence. She didn't need the space for an office or a nursery anymore. She didn't have a home - just a roof over her head and a trailer worth of grief.

That's the decision that changed everything.

Sarah kept a small box on her bedside table. It contained the wallet, keys, and socks her husband had on him when he passed away. A separate bag had contained his shoes and the rest of his clothing, but she had long since discarded that. For some reason, however, the box seemed more foreboding, more painful to open. Something about getting rid of his wallet felt final. Definitive. Like that chapter of her life was over too. It died with him.

But the thing about moving is that you are faced with the task of going through everything you own. Even the things you've avoided looking at for a very long time. Sarah knew the day would come when she needed to go through that box. So one Saturday afternoon, she sat down with it in front of her. She came with a box of tissues and a deepening sense of foreboding, prepared for where this process may lead her.

She was slow to open the box but when she finally did, she was struck by how not-like-him everything smelled. This made her chuckle. She used to tease him when he took off his socks cause his shoes never smelled awful. She joked he was some kind of scientific experiment because his feet seemingly never got any sweat, wherein most people seem to be able to evacuate a room when they take off their shoes after a long day. Such a little quirk, she had completely forgotten it. Revisiting the memory made her chest ache. She felt hollow as she made her way through his things.

His wallet was so exceedingly normal she could almost feel his touch as he put it in his back pocket that day. It's leather edges frayed by years of abuse - well broken-in by life's twist and turns. She looked at its overstuffed exterior. It was so full it didn't quite close all the way, bursting to the seams with cards, cash, checks, and coupons.

Memories of teasing him about having a huge wallet sprinkled across her vision.

"Seriously, you need to at least deposit some of these checks."

A deep chuckle in response, "babe, I told you I have a system! Look at this" he had taken out his wallet with dramatic flare and pulled out a check, "see, now I have money I didn't have before saved like a savings account, only better. Because I can't accidentally spend it."

"That makes no sense." She had punched him playfully in the arm then, grinning at this humorous impassionaied explanation.

When she picked up the wallet it felt heavier than she expected, almost as if it were made of metal, not leather. She turned it over in her hand, opened it, closed it, inhaled the scent of the leather and cash aroma. The scent of his cologne was faint, but still there. It felt like part of him. It felt like he was going to come into the room, crack some sort of joke about the size of his wallet, kiss her goodbye, and go to work. It felt so unbelievably normal.

Swallowing her grief, she began meticulously going through his wallet.

It contained credits cards that had long been expired, his ID, some business cards, cash, and a various assortment of other common wallet essentials. She made small piles on the bed, dividing cards and cash, until she came across his identification cards.