Congratulations on Finding Your Mom's Music Box!

When the lawyer reads your mom’s will you’ll be in a fugue state.  Her possessions will be meaningless, or at least the house, her bank accounts, all of that will be asinine compared to what you’ve lost.  But when he mentions her music box your eyes will light up.

“I get it?”

He’ll nod solemnly.  You’ll smile, then go back to your catatonic state as he continues listing off the various more substantial things your siblings will receive from your late mother’s estate.  When he finishes you’ll ask him where you can collect your inheritance.

“She left instructions to contact your estranged father,” he’ll explain.  “She wanted you to receive the music box, but she also wished you to at least attempt a reconciliation before doing so.”

You’ll nod solemnly.  You won’t have talked to your father in almost two decades, since he tried to convince you that the Gummi Bears were better cartoon bears than the Care Bears.  When you arrive at his house, deep in the suburbs of Saint Paul, in a rental car and the clothes you slept in last night, you’ll feel dread gnawing in the pity of your stomach.  It’ll eat at you as you step up to the door and when you finally reach him, it’ll feel as if it’s ready to climb out of your throat.

When he opens the door he’ll smile, but it’ll be a tight, knowing thing.

“Well,” he’ll murmur.  “Letter told me you’d be here.  Didn’t know to believe it.”  He’ll nod at you knowingly.  “Guess I know why you’re here.”

The eating feeling will turn to steel inside you.

“Just tell me where it is you son of a bitch,” you’ll spit at him.  You’ll remember every point he made, every exaggerated gesture, every dickish comment about exaggerated and heavy handed cartoon bears, every attempt to get you to read his stupid sociological surveys on the impact of media on American youth.  It’ll take every ounce of self-control you have not to reach over and wrap your hands around his throat.

He’ll wink at you, through your rage, and begin unbuckling his pants.

“Kept it warm and safe for you, just like she asked,” he’ll say.  Then he’ll squat down and, grunting and moaning, expel your mom’s music box from his rectum.

“Oh god,” you’ll say.  “It’s safe.”

“We worried something might happen to it before you got a chance to enjoy it.  To give it to your own little girl one day.”  He’ll smile at you as he pulls up his pants, looking away as you turn your prize over in your hands.

You’ll stare at it, dumbfounded, proof, shit covered proof, that your dad loved you enough to do some truly insane things for you years after breaking up with your mom, after you totally excised him from your life.

You’ll forget, for a moment about your rental car, and ask him, “Can I come in?”

Congratulations on Finding Your Mom’s Music Box!