The Name of a Mother

After years away from her hometown, Sarah knocked on the door of her childhood house. She was looking for the box in which her mother kept the family jewelry. Once the door was opened, three terrible memories came to Sarah. A burial, the first Christmas at the orphanage for girls, the forgotten jewels. When the new owner asked her about her visit, Sarah’s hands started shaking. A new owner meant no mom yelling at her because of the dirty rabbit’s cage. No mom at all. Sarah could not give a good answer, just said her mom’s name: “Emily Smith.” In those few words, she felt the taste of a rotten carrot from her past. The rabbit was killed two days after her mom committed suicide. Sarah ate the remaining carrots. The owner probably knew nothing: just a good purchase in a peaceful neighborhood. “Emily Smith,” Sarah said again.

Unfortunately or fortunately, something exploded inside the house, probably a kitchen appliance. Sarah got the chance and walked in. The living room was filthier than ever: not only dust but also a sticky carpet. Sarah tried not to think, not to see, not to pay attention to the bizarre painting of a pink tiger. She went to the master bedroom and stared at the tiled floor. Luckily the same tiles. She rummaged in her purse for a hammer and broke the third tile. In the created hole, she found a box: the box. “What the hell?” the owner angrily turned up. Sarah reacted quickly and ran fast but she slipped on the sticky carpet and fell.

An ambulance and the police. The day after, a police officer brought her the box to the hospital. “Emily Smith is engraved in all the jewels,” the police officer said, “and therefore no charges against you.”

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