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.
My heart tightened.
“What are you doing?” Emily called from the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
I held the envelope for a moment before opening it.
The paper inside was slightly wrinkled. The handwriting uneven, careful—like every word had been written slowly.
“My son…”
That was enough to stop me for a second.
“I’m sending you a few things from the farm. It’s not much, but it’s what I could gather. The eggs are fresh. I dried the fish myself, the way you used to like. The salsa isn’t too spicy, so the little one can have some too.”
I swallowed.
I glanced at the trash.
“Sorry if it arrived with dirt. I cleaned everything as best I could. I thought of you while packing it.”
The words felt heavier now.
“How is my daughter-in-law? I hope she’s well. Tell her I send my regards. I don’t know if she’ll like this, but it comes with love.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m doing okay here. Just get tired more easily these days. The doctor says I should rest, but you know me…”
My hands trembled slightly.
“If you have time, call me. You don’t have to come. I know you’re busy. Just hearing your voice is enough.”
The last lines were smaller, like she was running out of space—or strength.
“Take care of yourself. And the little one. I love you. Mom.”
I stood there, holding the letter.
Everything felt distant.
“What is it?” Emily asked, walking closer.
I didn’t answer.