Her Name Was Annie by Beth Rinyu (the little red hen read aloud txt) 📕

“You started without me,” I said as I entered the pale-yellow room that still oozed with my mother’s presence everywhere you looked. It was weird, but I could’ve sworn I still smelled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5, her favorite perfume, when I stepped foot in that area.

“I didn’t get too far. You know your mother, she had some of her things in every closet in the house.”

I looked at the pile of clothes, lying on the floor.

“Did you want to go through any of these and see if you’d like anything?”

There was no denying my mother had a keen fashion sense even as she grew older, but there was no way I’d fit into her clothes, given that I had about eight inches on her barely five-foot height. I always felt like a giant standing next to her. I remember when I was younger, wishing I could be short like her. I was one of the tallest girls in the class, even taller than most of the boys, and always felt a little self-conscious. It wasn’t until high school when the boys started surpassing my height that I finally began to feel normal again. Once I had met Jack, I really started appreciating being somewhat taller. He towered over me at six foot three, and suddenly I didn’t feel so awkward anymore. “Jolly Green Giant and Little Green Sprout.” I reminded my father of the nicknames he gave us.

“Oh yeah, I guess her things would be a little too short on you.” He chuckled.

“We can donate them. I know a place that has a little shop set up for women who can’t afford work attire. I can drop them off there if you’d like.”

“That sounds like a great idea. You know your mom’s charitable side would’ve liked that. Let me grab some bags from downstairs, and I’ll start loading this stuff up.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll start on her desk.”

“Good luck with that. I think she has bank statements in there from when we first moved in the house. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea while I’m downstairs. Did you want some?”

Sweat formed on my brow just thinking about a cup of hot tea as I sat in the sauna-like room. “No, thanks,” I replied without hesitation. I opened the rolltop desk to find two little plastic storage containers neatly organized. Each of them sectioned off with little color-coded tabs, first by the year and then by the month, with every stub or cancelled check for all the paid bills corresponding with that time frame. I smiled, remembering how organized she was with everything she did. It drove her crazy because I was the exact opposite.

Growing up, I’d have clothes strewn everywhere in my bedroom before I’d leave for school. She’d go into my room while I was in class and neatly hang everything up, even going as far as ironing the ones that became wrinkled, only to repeat the process the next day. If my father or I dared to drop a crumb on the kitchen floor while eating, she was right there with the broom and dustpan, sweeping it up.

She was meticulous with everything she did, and as I grew older, I realized just how exhausted she must’ve been from it all. She’d never let her guard down and just relax. It was as if she was always trying to prove to be the perfect mother and wife. It was something she battled only with herself because my father and I already knew she was the best of both. It saddened me to think she never realized we would’ve loved her just as much even with crumbs on the floor or wrinkles in our clothes.

It was something I had become keenly aware of and vowed I would never do when I had a home and family of my own. I liked having a clean house, but I also liked it to be lived in as well. I removed the containers from the desk and placed them on the floor, so I could take them home with me and shred them.

When I pulled on the next drawer, I was a little surprised to find it was locked. What could she have possibly had in there that she didn’t want us to see? I searched through the other drawers in hopes of finding the key without any success. My mind started going in a million different directions. Did she have some secret life she didn’t want my father and me knowing about? Should I ask my dad if he knew where the key was? But what if there was something in there she wanted to keep secret from him, something that would devastate him? But even if there was, he should know the truth. Shouldn’t he? Did it even matter now that she was gone?

I got up from the chair and peeked out the bedroom door, making sure my father wasn’t coming up the stairs. I grabbed her letter opener from on top of the desk, remembering the little lesson Jack had given me years ago on picking locks. I stuck the pointy instrument into the keyhole and carefully worked it around until the lock sprang open. Inside the drawer was another small box just like the ones she had her bills organized in. My hands shook as I took off the lid, overcome with emotion at the photographs, cards, and different mementos she had held on to throughout the years.

Unlike her bills, they were all thrown in the box haphazardly. Why did she feel the need to keep that drawer locked? I had probably looked through a lot of those photographs a million times over the years, and most of the cards were more than likely from me or Kara from over the years. I hurriedly stuck the lid back on the box when I heard my father coming up the steps, placing it next to the others that