He settled into his chair. “At the Records Office. But I’ll tell you something right now: if your mother is already nervous about the wardrobe, they know perfectly well there’s something they didn’t want you to see.”
I left there with the sun going down and a strange sensation in my chest. It wasn’t triumph. Much less joy. It was something harsher. It was like I could finally face a truth that had been half-lived for years: in that house, I didn’t get less by accident. I got less because they always counted on the fact that I would take it.
I got to the apartment and found Roger standing by my door. He had his arms crossed and the same “owner” face he had as a kid when he claimed the TV, the ball, or the front seat of the car.
“You took your time answering,” he said.
I took my keys out slowly. “I live here. You don’t have to wait for me like a debt collector.”
“Mom is upset.”
“I would be too if I distributed things that weren’t mine to give.”
His eyes shifted slightly. A small detail, but I saw it.
“What did you find?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Funny how quickly we went from ‘old junk’ to ‘what did you find’.”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t try to be smart.”
“Don’t you try to be so sure of yourself.”
We stood in silence for a few seconds, sizing each other up like never before. It was no longer the old dynamic of the older brother setting the tone and the younger one swallowing his rage. Something had broken in my mom’s living room along with the humiliation of leaving me a wardrobe as a crumb.
Roger took a step closer. “Look, Daniel. If there are papers, we settle it as a family. No digging up old crap or trying to call in favors.”
I felt heat rising up my neck. “They aren’t favors when they only go one way.”
He smiled, but it was ugly. “Be careful what you do. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I didn’t answer right away. I put the key in the lock. Then I turned slightly toward him.
“I think for the first time, I do.”
I opened the door and walked in. I didn’t invite him. He didn’t follow.
But before I closed it, I caught a glimpse around the corner of the hallway: my mom was getting out of my brother’s car, her purse clutched to her chest and her face pale.
She wasn’t coming to visit.
She was coming to take something back.
And in that instant, I understood that the red wardrobe wasn’t the end of the distribution.
It was the first door.
