The door to the house protested as I attempted to push it open. The recent bout of bad weather had caused the chipped and exposed wood to become bloated, sticking within the frame.

"For crying out loud." I muttered. Then, turning the key once more, I rammed against the wood with my shoulder, leaning all of my weight upon it.

With a groan, the door finally gave way and swung inwards. I yelped as, unable  to stop my momentum, it carried me with it. I staggered through the open doorway, tripped over the uneven threshold, and crashed onto the threadbare carpet.

My shoulder throbbed in protest in time with my heartbeat.

"Ouch," I groaned, my hand reaching up to massage the aching wound. Damn that hurt. A lot.

Dust tickled my nose as small specs danced through the beam of sunlight spilling in from behind me. I sneezed, my head smacking back onto the floor in the process.

With a groan, I rolled onto my front. Then, placing both hands on the ground, I pushed up. My bruised shoulder ached in protest. Unsteadily, I clambered to my feet and glanced around. My hand came up to rub at the tender spot on the back of my head before falling limply to my side.

The house was dark and damp, a mustiness hanging in the air as if it had been empty for years. All of the curtains were closed, casting everything into shadows. No, it hadn't been years. In truth, it had only been two weeks.

Two weeks since I had finally relented and admitted Mum into the care of others. Two weeks since the sale of the house had been agreed and contracts had been exchanged. Two weeks since I had finally admitted defeat and said goodbye to the only life I had ever known.

I swallowed, hovering at the foot of the stairs. The house was hollow in my mum's absence. There was none of her warmth. None of her personality left in the peeling paper and flaking ceilings.

Stepping into the living room, I absently nudged at the fraying rug with the toe of my boot. "Why are you hovering here?"

I swallowed and turned to face the blonde woman in the doorway. Her presence blocked the daylight from penetrating the gloom of the small house, her features half hidden in shadows. The expression on her face however was familiar. I had seen in on our mum's face many times over the years.

"It feels strange without her. It doesn't feel like home anymore."

A manicured hand landed on my shoulder, gave an awkward squeeze of comfort. "I know. But it's not your home anymore. It's going to be someone else's soon. You need to let it go."

"Really? That's what you have to say? A little compassion would be nice." I shrugged off my sister's touch and stepped away. "Why are you even here? You didn't care to be here before when we needed you."

My sister sighed and allowed her hand to drop. "I cared."

"You have a funny way of showing it." I retorted bitterly, my resentment allowing me to step further into my home. The home which, as she had correctly pointed out, would soon belong to someone else. "You haven't been here once since her diagnosis."

I swallowed and glanced around at the living room. It was familiar and yet somehow unfamiliar. It was as if, in the brief time that I had been away, all traces of my life had been removed. Sure, all of my mum's things were still there. Her cardigan slung over the back of the chair. Her pictures on the walls.

And yet, without her, it was as if the very essence of her had seeped away. As if the walls had forgotten who she was. It was just bricks and mortar.

Most damning was that, now that Mum was no longer the sole focus of my attention, I could see everything I had neglected. It was so much worse than I remembered. The wall paper was literally peeling from the walls due to age. A suspicious stain yellowed the ceiling. The carpets were so tired and worn they had actually formed holes in places.

When had it gotten this bad? How had it gotten this bad?

Not that it would have made a difference. Even if I had noticed the problems before, there was nothing in the bank to make the repairs. Even with the NHS support, caring for a family member with a long term illness was expensive. Too expensive for an entry level job.

"Wow, this place hasn't changed at all. Even the wallpaper is the same."

"I've had better things to do than worry about interior design." I frowned at my sister. "Besides, how would you know? It's not like you're ever here."

Diane sighed, running a hand through her short hair. "It wasn't a judgement."

Sniffing, I turned away. It sure bloody felt like a judgement. One I didn't need her to confirm.

I already knew I had failed at this – failed mum. By putting her into a home, I had broken the one promise she had asked of me. It was something I had to learn to live with. Even if that was bloody difficult.

Unwilling to acknowledge her words, I said, "There's bin bags under the sink in the kitchen. You take the living room and I'll take upstairs."

"Rosie. Please."

"Make sure you separate things into three different piles. Donate. Keep. Bin."

My sister sighed loudly behind me. A part of me wanted to turn around. A larger part of me was an angry barely healed would that rupture at the slightest provocation.

I ignored Diane as she called for me once more, her voice pleading, and instead I made my way up the stairs one stomp at a time. Halfway up, my steps slowed.

Pausing, my hands resting on the rail to hold me steady, I let out my own sigh as my head hung between my shoulders.

After a second, I glanced back. "Diane? I'm sorry. That was – I was being a bitch. I do appreciate your help with this. I'm not sure I would be able to do it alone. So thank you."

Without waiting for a further response, I hurried up the last of the stairs to safety of the upper floor of the house. My relationship with Diane was a wound I was not equipped to deal with. Not yet.

Mum's bedroom was in complete disarray as I entered. Empty drawers hung open. The bed was unmade. Only a few scattered bottles and mementoes remained on her dresser. It looked as if someone had been fleeing the scene of a crime.

Instead, Mum had just been forcibly removed from her old life that she no longer remembered. By me. By my choice.

Walking over to her dresser, I gently picked up a bottle. Holding it close to my nose, I breathed in the familiar scent. It smelt just like her.

At one time, I could barely move through the house without a cloud of Calvin Klein's Obsession hanging in the air. The strong scent had always tickled my nose. Now, the scent was fading, as if the house was forgetting the life she had lived here. I miss it. I miss her.

I placed the bottle back down with great care, the deep amber liquid sloshing within the glass.

Swallowing, I closed the drawers one by one. The bang as they closed was overly loud in the quiet house. In their wake, only the barest hint of a shuffle reverberated up the stairs reminding me that today's visit was not a solo expedition.

Diane. I still can't believe she came through.

I snorted and shook my head. "I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Unwilling to spend any more time dwelling on the fractured state of my relationship with my sister, I approached the only part of the room which remained untouched. The wardrobe was old. An antique that my mum had picked up at a boot fair when I was still a teenager. A small key protruded from the lock.

Breathing in deep, I twisted the key. Mercifully it turned and with a faint click the door popped open.

The contents contained outfits that were imprinted on every significant childhood memory. Outfits from the 80's and 90's that Mum constantly found ways to revive. Bright colours. Shoulder pads. As I slid the items along the rails, moments would flash up in startling clarity. First day of secondary school. School disco. My tenth birthday party at McDonalds when they still had ball pits and scarily large character cut outs pinned to the walls.

Sighing, I grabbed handfuls of hangers and tossed them onto the bed. The pile of clothes got bigger and bigger. A part of me felt as if I was clearing out a clown car. The contents seeming far too great in comparison to the respective size of the wardrobe.

Eventually the rail was clear. Lifting on to the balls of my feet, I peered into the shadowy recesses of the top shelf. I frowned. There was a small wooden box tucked at the back in the furthest corner.

Reaching in, I pulled it towards me with the tips of my fingers. It slipped within my grasp. I stretched further, the arches of my feet aching in protest, and then I managed to get a better grasp on the box. And then, slowly I tugged it towards me.

Where have I -?

In an instant, a memory forced its way to the forefront of my mind. I could see it so clearly that it was like a film was playing in my brain.

My mum, her perfectly styled blonde hair hanging around her face, while her fingers trailed over the contents. For once, there had been no lipstick. Instead, all she wore on her face were the tears she hastily wiped away when she realised I was watching.

My hands shook as I held the box firmly within my hands. My fingers danced over the patterns made from light and dark woods to form a rose. I hadn't noticed that last time.

I made no immediate move to open it.

Instead, I rested my fingers against the wood and breathed deeply. It was irrational. Something told me this box was about to turn my entire world upside down. There was no reason for it. I had no clue what the box contained. I only knew the pain it had always brought my mum.

As if they had a mind of their own, my fingers flicked up the small latch as I took a seat on the corner of the unmade bed. I couldn't stop myself from opening the lid.

Inside was a collection of papers, photos, and trinkets.

Propping the box on one arm, I lifted out the sheet resting on the top. I frowned as I unfolded a paper menu. It was the cheap kind that doubled as a place mat. The restaurant wasn't one I recognised - just another chain restaurant. Why was it significant? Why would she keep this? Why would she touch it so frequently the edges had become worn?

I flipped over the paper and my stomach churned. What – the - fuck?

I dropped the paper. Picked it back up. My pulse beat loudly within my ears as I blinked and read the contents once more.

I should have listened to my instinct. I should have left the box exactly where I had found it because, once seen, there was no unseeing.

And I really wish I hadn't seen this.

Shoving the paper back in the box, I slammed down the lid before thrusting the box away from me. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I panted for breath.

It didn't matter whether I threw the box into a fire and let the entire thing burn. I already knew. I was already tainted by association.

"What the fuck did you do, Mum?"

**

What do you think is on the paper? What do you think her mum did?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!

- Kat