Free Objects of My Affection by Jill Smolinski

mom.”
    Smiling, I pulled him toward me in a kiss. “She loves you, too.”
    D aniel and I didn’t start living together right away. His spare toothbrush moved in first. Then the brand of shampoo he likes. Followed by enough clothes that I had to designate a drawer, then part of the closet. Then came the bike. Within a year he followed his stuff and gave up his old apartment.
    We were already entrenched by the time I realized my mistake.
    I’d let myself picture us as a family—the three of us.
    Daniel, for his part, conspired in the lie: having the occasional “boys’ night out” with Ash, seeming as relaxed with my son around as he did when it was he and I alone.
    That’s why it hurt so badly when Daniel eventually issued the ultimatum. When he said, “I can’t take living here with Ash anymore. His drug problem is more than I can deal with. You have to choose—it’s either him or me.” He couldn’t have cut me any deeper.
    I chose my son. Of course I chose my son.

chapter four
    Owning a library of beautifully bound books doesn’t make you a well-read person. You have to read them.
    â€”Things Are Not People
    A fter a weekend of hanging out with Heather’s family, I’m glad to get back to work Monday. I’m exhausted. Ash was into LEGOs as a kid, whereas Abigail is all about imaginary play—and, may I add, bossily so. (“No, Aunt Lucy, you have to wear the pink. The pink! The pink !”) Still, I gave it my all playing with her, and I insisted on babysitting so Heather and Hank could go on a date Saturday night. They’ve been so generous letting me stay with them. I do what I can to pitch in.
    The morning is pleasantly sunny and warm. I’ve talked Marva into having her cigarette on the front porch so I can drag boxes out to present her choices to her there. Not exactly efficient, but I want to keep this job moving. If that means letting Marva sit like the queen while I bow before her, so be it.
    â€œIt’s a heavy one,” I say, sliding a box in front of her and opening the flaps.
    Hmm. Books, mostly of the coffee-table variety I notice as I sift through the box. “Yard sale?” I ask hopefully, gesturing as if I’m moving the box as a whole to the side.
    She gives me a withering look.
    I stifle a groan. Book by book it is.
    It’s soon apparent the challenge I’m facing. Tucked in with books that could go for a dollar each at a yard sale are signed first editions. There’s an art-house book on the history of the Barbie doll marked $500 retail. (Even I get sucked into sitting down and thumbing through that one.) There’s also a brooch, one earring, and a $50 bill.
    It’s going to be like this through the whole house. Treasures mixed in with trash. I can’t simply chuck a box into the bin unless I want to accidentally throw away a Picasso.
    I start to panic at the thought of touching each and every object in Marva’s house—of knowing that I’ll eventually open the box or drawer or closet that contains the earring that matches the first one I found. That’s how thorough I need to be. I’m not just looking for a needle in the haystack.
    I’m also sorting the hay.
    W ill pulls in behind me when I arrive Tuesday morning. “Stopping by to give you your paycheck and see how things are going,” he says, as we let ourselves in through the front door.
    I wait nervously for his reaction. It’s been a week, and even I have to admit the progress is less than spectacular.
    â€œIs anything gone?” he says, gazing around the room. “In fact, is it worse? Did the two of you spend the week shopping?”
    Yeah, and then we got our nails done and had lunch at the Ritz. I swear, he’s such a jerk. “The mudroom is completely finished,” I say, trying not to sound as peeved as I am, and not entirely succeeding.
    I hear humming off the kitchen,