I’ve been standing in the doorway with a box in each hand for the last thirty minutes, tiptoeing on the threshold but not allowing myself to fully enter.

I’ve been avoiding my mom’s room since she left me a month ago, not wanting to deal with the heartache that I know will beat me down as soon as I begin rummaging through her belongings. To my dismay, I have to sort through her things and decide what goes and what I want to hold on to as a reminder of her.

But this is a step I have to take. I have to do this to move forward, to let her go. I’m tired of putting it off, of it looming over me like some kind of bad omen.

Inhaling a deep breath, I step over the line I’ve been teetering and enter her room, engulfed by her scent, reminding me of the icing on a red velvet cake.

I drop the two boxes in each of my hands, placing them on her bed. One box for donation and one for me, to shove in the closet and bring out whenever I need something tangible that was hers.

I start at her dresser, clearing the necklaces and bracelets she hadn’t worn in ages, placing all of it in the donation box. I lift her still full perfume bottle to my nose, inhaling the familiar sweet aroma, knowing this is as close as I’ll get to feeling like she’s in the same room as me. Keep, definitely keeping this.

I spend the next couple of hours sorting through her clothes and pictures, but in the end, I need another box, so I stop, taking a deep breath and allowing myself to be satisfied that I accomplished as much as I did.

I vacate her room with the boxes, not closing the door behind me, not shutting myself off from her like I have been since she died.

She died. It’s odd that people avoid the word died like it’s poison. They always say passed away. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry she passed away.’ Let’s just call it like it is–death. It’s not a dirty word. It happens every day, whether we like it or not. You can’t run from it, and you can’t hide from it.

My mom died. I like to think she’s in a better place. Heaven, afterlife, wherever she ended up I know she’s not in pain anymore. I know her body isn’t suffering, and I know she’s better off because the life she was living wasn’t really a life. She was existing in a place she thought she belonged, only allowing herself what she believed she deserved. But she didn’t deserve it. The pain, the heartache, the way my dad treated her.

She deserved more. Something more than what this life could give her, more than what I could give her, so I’m taking stock in knowing she no longer has to deal with what she had, now I choose to believe she has so much more.

I place the two boxes on the floor next to the couch, and I plop down on the hard cushion. I scan the small trailer, seeing Mom’s letter on the kitchen counter where I left it.

I sigh, letting my head fall to the back of the couch.

Her letter tore me apart, took my insides and ripped them out of my body. It took me a while to come to terms with what she did. Obviously, I don’t agree with her reasons for choosing to die, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. So I have to accept it and move on, and I’m trying…I really am. But all of this is harder than I ever thought it would be.

I pinch my eyes closed.

I need to live.

I need to move on.

I need to do it for her–to honor the woman who sacrificed everything for me, but mostly, I need to do it for me.

I cross my arms, propping my hip against the car I’m supposed to be working on, but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t want to be here. This is the last place I was before Mom died, and I feel like it’s one giant reminder of her death–just like the check I have at home.

I received the check for Mom’s life insurance three days ago, and it’s been sitting on the couch ever since. Every time I see it, I want nothing more than to tear it to shreds, hating everything it represents.

“Jade, what are you going?” Harry grunts, walking out of his office, but I don’t acknowledge him–not a glance, not a word.

My eyes skirt across the shop. It reminds me too much of my dad. He taught me how to change the oil on a car. He taught me how to repair a broken air conditioner. He taught me everything I know about cars, and I really don’t want the reminder of a man who abandoned me.

“Jade,” Harry huffs.

I shake my head as I look at him. “I need to leave; I can’t be here,” I mumble to myself.

“What was that?” he asks, taking a step forward.

I drop my hands to my sides and straighten my shoulders. “I quit.” I breathe a sigh of relief as the words wash over me.

“You what?”

“I quit.” I push away from the car and walk around Harry.

He doesn’t say anything as I exit the garage for the last time.

I inhale the fresh air and smile, knowing I’m doing the right thing. I’m taking a step in the right direction, leaving the things I hate behind.

I grab my bike from the side of the building and hop on, but before I can get away from the garage, Joey comes running outside.

He stops in front of me, smiling from ear to ear. “Good luck, Jade.”

I nod my head, grinning right back at him. “You too, Joey.”

Without looking back, I leave, my chest lighter and movements easier.

The wind whips my long hair behind me, and I bask in the way the sun beats down on me, shining a light over me.