Parents Declutter Me Right Out of Existence
In our house, owning a single unnecessary item is considered shameful.
My room is bare, like a model home. It doesn't even have an extra chair.
There are always only three sets of clothes in my closet. If I want a new pair of pants, I have to cut up the old pair myself before I can keep the new one.
Every time I bring something new home, I have to get rid of something old. That includes my favorite pair of shorts with the little robot prints.
Dad calls this "decluttering". He says it prevents the soul from becoming weighed down by objects, keeping it pure and light.
Every time I grow a little taller, Mom's frown gets a little deeper.
"Eddie, you're taking up too much space," she says. "The house feels crowded because of you."
From then on, I do everything I can to make myself smaller. Even when I sleep, I curl myself into the tightest ball I can manage. I just want to take up a little less space.
Then one day, a truck driver stops in front of me. He smiles and tells me his truck has a huge cargo compartment, big enough to hold all the things nobody wants anymore.
I quietly climb inside.
"Mom, Dad… I won't take up any space now. You'll finally be happy, won't you?"