The packaging alone probably cost more than the takeout I’d planned to order. Inside, nestled in gold paper, were rows of glossy, handcrafted chocolates, the kind you see in magazine spreads next to words like single-origin and ethically sourced and limited edition. They might as well have stamped WE HAVE MONEY across the lid.
I don’t even like chocolate that much. Not enough to justify whatever ridiculous price they paid. And definitely not enough to let something from them sit on my counter like a small, elegant landmine.
Because every time I looked at the box, it dragged up the same reel.
My mother’s funeral.
Dad’s hand already on Evelyn’s lower back.
Melissa’s voice in the hallway telling me I should try not to make everything about myself.
Brandon at twelve now, but in my memory still little, hugging my leg like I was the last solid thing in the room.
So I didn’t put the chocolates in my pantry.
I put them in the passenger seat of my aging Civic.
That afternoon, I drove out of downtown Columbus, up through the arteries of High Street and Bethel Road, until the city gave way to wider streets and bigger houses. Lawns clipped to perfection. Driveways big enough for three cars and a basketball hoop no kid used. Neighborhoods with HOA newsletters that said things like “charming community” and “keeping property values strong.”
Dublin, Ohio.
The house I grew up in looked the same from the outside. White siding. Black shutters. A maple tree in the front yard that had seen more of my life than either of my parents ever bothered to.
The differences were in the details.
Newer cars in the driveway. A security camera by the front door. An upgraded porch light that made the entryway look like a magazine cover.
I didn’t knock. I still had a key.
The door opened with the same familiar resistance, then gave way. Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and whatever expensive candle Evelyn was currently pretending matched her aesthetic. Something floral and sharp that made my throat feel tight.
A cartoon blared from the living room TV, the kind with colors so bright they made your teeth hurt.
“Brandon,” I called out.
Feet thudded down the stairs. My little brother appeared, all elbows and knees and messy hair, wearing a hoodie that looked slept in and socks that did not match. He was twelve and already carrying himself like he was bracing for impact. Like he’d learned to shrink his presence so adults wouldn’t snap.
Behind him, two smaller figures popped out of the hallway like baby birds.
Leighton and Matteo. Melissa’s kids. Seven and five. Cheeks flushed, hair sticking up, energy sparking off them like they were plugged into a wall.
“Kendall!” Leighton shrieked, eyes bright. “Did you bring something?”
I lifted the box. “Depends. Do you like chocolate?”
They answered by shrieking again.
Brandon’s eyes widened. He tried to sound older than he was. “What’s that?”
“A birthday gift from Dad and Evelyn,” I said, letting my eyes roll. “And you three will enjoy it more than I will.”
I set the box on the coffee table.
Brandon hesitated. He glanced toward the kitchen like he expected Evelyn to appear and catch him breathing too loudly. “Evelyn said…”
“Evelyn says a lot of things,” I cut in. “This came addressed to me. I’m giving it to you. End of story.”
His mouth twisted, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. Then Leighton lunged for the ribbon and any hesitation drowned under joy.
They attacked the box like puppies tearing into a treat bag. Paper flew. The gold seal ripped. The lid came off, and all three of them made the same sound at once, a long delighted whoa that made something in my chest ache.
“Pick a few and do not fight,” I said, ruffling Brandon’s hair. “And maybe do not tell Evelyn I gave you her fancy Instagram chocolates. She might start charging admission.”
They were already grabbing pieces, laughing, arguing over which ones looked the prettiest. A dark sphere with gold flecks. A perfect square with a red stripe. A marbled dome the color of caramel.
I watched them for a minute, trying to memorize their faces like that, unguarded, sticky-fingered, alive.
I didn’t take a single piece.
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