The Biggest Small Loss
I have really missed my writing critique group and the opportunity to write short fiction. So here is a personal essay I wrote about motherhood and about fighting with a spouse you definitely love (despite how this piece sounds). Let me know what you think in the comments.
-Ash
Her boy, seven now and lanky in a way that makes her heart ache, plops onto the carpet and tips a box sideways. Plastic clatters out in a tidal wave—dinosaurs, McDonald’s toys, silicone squishies covered in… dog hair? And, of course, Hot Wheels. Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. He used to beg for them every time they passed the toy aisle at the grocery store, the pharmacy, every moment they passed anything vaguely toy-adjacent.
Can I have a car? Just one car? A blue one? A red one? A fast one?
Two gallon size bags fill with them now. He tosses them in casually without realizing he is tossing away whole eras of their life together.
She’s not going to say anything. It’s hard enough for him to get rid of toys and Christmases and birthdays are only going to make the toy box more cramped. She’s not going to encourage him to keep a single thing even if it hurts. Better to snag a keepsake or two afterward. She’ll keep them with his baby clothes.
“Should I get rid of this?” He asks holding up a board game.
“Its not my choice to make baby.”
When he isn’t looking, she’ll palm a bright blue Hot Wheels car. The one with the lime green roof. She’ll keep the clunky toy flashlight he carried everywhere at three, the one that played music when you didn’t want it to. She tucks them into the side of the bin for easy grabbing later and carries the donation bin to her bedroom.
She’s sitting on the floor when her husband appears in the doorway. He looks at the bin, the stacks of outdated board games.
“When are you taking all that to Goodwill?” he asks.
“I’m not,” she jokes…sort of.
He frowns. “What?”
“I’ve been throwing his toys away.” Its only partially the truth. She did make big efforts in the past to find these things homes. But the buy nothing page on Facebook has seen better days. “It’s mostly trash,” she says, “Do you know how long it will take to sort through this overflowing bin just to figure out what’s worth donating?”
His gaze snags on something in the bin, a blue race track. The one he bought. The one he picked out thoughtfully—not a cheap Hot Wheels one that will snap in half after three uses, but a roll up track the length of the hallway. The track they’d raced cars and marbles and pinewood derby cars down.
“Why is that in there?” His voice steels.
“He’s… done with it. Gave up all his cars!” She says in a can-you-believe-it tone.
“That’s still good. You can’t just throw it away! Why didn’t you use two bins and sort it as you went.”
Because all the bins were in use? Because that would have slowed down the boy, who was doing so well at letting things go? Because it might have made him second guess? Because it’s not a big deal?
But she doesn’t have time to tell him any of this. He’s already shut off his listening, telling her how she could have done it better as if he’s ever done this task at all! They erupt into a fight. Because the right way is his way. He’s telling her how to do her job as a home maker. She’s criticizing him. He’s calling her a bitch by the end just because he knows how much she hates that word.
“I’m done with this!” He yells.
“You don’t get to come in here, say all your peace, and not listen to me at all!”
He leaves.
Her chest burns, but she isn’t regretful. She meant everything she said. Who was he to come into her “office” and criticize how she conducts her “work”?
She storms into the bathroom. Turns the shower on too hot. The water is mercifully loud. Under it, she breathes. Thinks. Calms.
Okay, she tells herself. He’s right. I don’t value waste. I can sort the toys. It won’t take that long and I can listen to the audiobook for book club. It might even be a nice activity.
When she steps out of the shower, towel wrapped around her hair, the bin is gone.
So are the board games.
So is he.
That fucker, she thinks. If he thinks he’s going to teach me a lesson…
She checks the guest room expecting he’ll be there sorting things out. But the room is empty. The garage. The laundry room. He’s nowhere to be found. Her pulse spikes. A cold, sick realization filling her stomach.
He took the toys.
He took everything.
She runs outside, flings open the trash bin, but only the sticky squishies and broken dentist toys stare up at her. Not the cars. Not the flashlight.
Her hands shake as she calls him.
He sends her to voicemail mid-ring.
She calls again.
This time he answers, irritated, indignant. “What?”
The blue car, she breathes. The blue and green one. I needed that one. I wasn’t done. But out loud she says, “There were things in there I wanted! Did you really have to storm off to prove a point?”
He can hear her crying and changes his tone. “I pulled out the flashlight and the train whistle for you.” He thinks he’s done good. That he knows his wife.
Relief at the flashlight lasts less than a second. Her lungs seize. And when she doesn’t respond he says, “There’s stuff in the trash still…”
“It’s not in there!”
He goes silent. There’s a faint softening, but it’s wrapped in pride, wrapped in the belief that he was right. That she was wrong. There will be no apology, not a real one.
“You couldn’t even wait? Couldn’t talk this out like adults?”
But she hangs up after the question, before he can say another word, before she can. The sob is already breaking over her. She folds over herself and cries—ugly, shaking, watching-neighbors-be-damned tears.
The boy finds her. “Are you ok mom?”
“No, I’m not. Thank you for checking on me. Go play.”
She would dig through the trash if she thought the little blue car was there. She would dig through a landfill. But she knows it’s in his trunk, on its way to Goodwill, lost.
It’s ok. It’s just stuff, she tells herself. If its so important she could call the Goodwill tomorrow. Or visit it next week and maybe buy back her lost treasure.
Later, when her eyes burn and her body feels hollowed out, he returns. He’s quiet. Sheepish in the way he gets when he regrets.
He sets the little toy flashlight and the train whistle on her desk.
He kisses her forehead.
“I will go dig through the trash,” he says softly. “if you can just tell me what to look for.”
“I know how to dig through the trash, it’s not in there,” she says, avoiding his gaze. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”
At bed time, she tucks their son into bed. Pulls the comforter up to his nose and gives him a tickle through the thick warmth of the blanket.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.” She turns on the night light. “Goodnight lovey.”
After the door clicks she can hear him, muffled, only making out something something “mom?”
She opens the door again. “What’s that baby?”
“Where is the bin of toys? I was looking in your room earlier but it was moved.”
“Daddy took it to the thrift store to donate. Why?”
He looks disappointed. “Well I found another thing to add to the bin is all.”
“Oh that’s ok, what is it?”
Her eyes follow his pointing finger to his bookshelf and there is a car that didn’t make it in with its brethren. A blue car. Not the one she’d hoped to keep, but…
“You want to put that in the bin?” She asks. “You want to donate that car?”
“Yeah.”
She picks it up as if it is gold. “Can I have it?” She asks. And when he nods she slips it into her pocket. It wasn’t the one she’d meant to save, but maybe this one was the one she needed.
Maybe this was what letting go looked like.
She kisses her son on the forehead, gently strokes his hair.
“Goodnight lovey,” she whispers, and closes the door.
Geez, Ash, why're you making me cry on a Tuesday at 9:30am? 🤣
So relatable