The Mileu

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I walked up the stairs to my new client’s house on a crisp autumn morning. Fall leaves crunched underneath my feet. I slowly placed my foot on the wooden steps, creaks escaped the weak foundation. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. The force of my knock opened the door itself. No lock doors? I’m surprised. This must be a nice neighborhood. A place where nothing bad ever happens. Where the people are generous and living fairy tale lives. She trusted her neighbors more than I would. I inspected the environment around me. The foyer was huge, but not so spacious. There wasn’t in fact, any space. It looked like someone had gotten in before me. That would explain why the door opened with such ease. I saw boxes and totes piled up. Abstract pictures hanging off-balance. Beautiful family portraits thrown to the side like they weren’t of too much value, anymore. It was hard to maneuver through the foyer to get into the main room.

“Hello?”

I belched out, but my greeting got no response. As I reached the living room or should I say living disaster; there were clothes on the floor and shoes thrown around. Papers, toys, cups, spoons, any and everything covered these floors. I saw my client’s mom sitting on the couch, talking on her cell phone. She had a distress look on her face with papers in her lap. Her glasses barely hung on the tip of her nose and her dark brown hair was disheveled on her head. Maybe she was talking to the police, I thought to myself.

“Hello, I’m…”

I began to introduce myself, but she pointed over to a door; my client’s room. I said nothing, just followed her notion. To my surprised it was spotless, as my client lay peacfully in her clean white bed. I overheard her mom say,

“I just want this to be over!”

Must not be the police. But why is this house in such shambles?

“He can have it all! All of it. I want to be done!”

Who is he? I thought to myself again. Maybe her husband, I do know she’s married.

“This divorce is driving me crazy. His things are packed. It’s just too much for me to handle.”

She spoke into the phone. She was referring to her husband well, clearly her ex-husband. That would explain the disorganization of things. But I couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was his mess and how much was hers…

“We all have stories to tell.” – Unknown

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