Chapter 3

The suffocating atmosphere at home continued into the next morning.

Over breakfast, Dad delivered his verdict coldly. "As punishment for your unhealthy attachment to unnecessary objects, and to thoroughly cleanse our living space, we'll be carrying out a deep decluttering this month."

I bit into my tasteless whole wheat bread without a word, keeping my eyes fixed on the table.

This so-called "deep decluttering" meant that even the most essential items were at risk of being discarded.

Dad pointed at my desk. "That piece takes up too much room in the study, and its dark walnut finish weighs down the entire aesthetic of the study."

My chest tightened. Grandpa had built that desk for me before he died.

On his deathbed, he'd held my hand and said, "Eddie, study hard here. I'll be watching over you from heaven."

The tabletop still bore the crooked little airplane I'd carved into it as a child.

"No!" I cried, throwing down my bread as I wrapped both arms around one of the desk's legs.

"Dad, please! Grandpa gave it to me! If you throw it away, I'll have to do my homework on the floor!"

"Memories are burdens," Dad said flatly. "Your grandfather is gone. This desk is nothing more than a piece of furniture that wastes space. Eddie, you have to let it go."

I screamed, "No! I won't!"

It changed nothing.

Mom and Dad lifted the desk together. They were both thin, but whenever it came to throwing things away, they seemed to possess unbelievable strength.

They carried the desk out the front door and dumped it beside the neighborhood recycling spot. One of the legs hit the concrete and snapped clean off.

I ran after it and threw my arms around the broken desk, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.

Behind me, Mom and Dad casually dusted the dirt from their hands.

"If you insist on clinging to that pile of trash, then don't bother coming home," Mom said coldly.

Then she took Dad's hand and walked away.

Just like that, they were gone. I stood alone in the cold fall wind, hugging a broken desk.

At that moment, a large green cargo truck pulled up to the curb.

The driver hopped out. When he saw my tear-streaked face, he paused for a moment before flashing me an easy smile.

"Hey there, kid. What's got you crying? Nobody wants this desk anymore?"

I nodded through my sobs, then shook my head.

The driver patted the side of his enormous truck with a grin. "My truck's got plenty of room. It'll fit anything nobody else wants."

I stared up at the cargo compartment. It was enormous, dark, and so deep I couldn't see the end. There was more than enough room in there.

Our home had always felt too small, and I knew it was my fault. Mom said I had grown too tall and taken up too much room. Dad said I breathed too loudly and disturbed the flow of the air.

Perhaps I was the one who didn't fit in that house.

If I simply vanished, Dad wouldn't have had to throw out the armchair. He wouldn't have had to toss Grandpa's desk either.

I was the clutter that needed to be cleared away.

If I weren't there, would the house finally feel big enough?

Would Mom and Dad finally be at peace?