For months, I urged Tom to get rid of our tattered couch. “Tom, when are you hauling this eyesore out?” I’d say, met each time with promises of “tomorrow” or “next weekend.” But those tomorrows never came.
Frustrated, I finally took matters into my own hands, renting a truck and dumping the worn-out furniture. Proud of my initiative, I unveiled a brand-new couch, expecting Tom’s gratitude. Instead, he froze, his face pale. “You took the old couch… to the dump?” he asked, panicked.
Tom insisted we retrieve it immediately. At the dump, he frantically sifted through piles of trash until he uncovered the old couch. Hidden inside, he pulled out a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper—a childhood map of “hideouts” he’d made with his late younger brother, Jason.
Tears in his eyes, Tom shared his grief. “That map… it’s all I have left of him.” His story illuminated the depth of his loss and the couch’s sentimental value.
That map now hangs framed in our living room, a symbol of cherished memories and healing.
