Yellow duster in hand, I wiped over the surface of the last plastic box and slotted it into place atop its relevant stack.
There. I stepped back to admire my handiwork; weeks of organising, cataloguing and cleaning in what little free time I had between schoolwork, family obligations and DOA meetings and events. It was beautiful, an orderly feast for the eyes.
And it was finally done.
I’d switched out the old ratty cardboard boxes, most of which had been falling apart, for plastic tubs and dividers that I bought with my own money. I might have asked my father to pitch in but I had the feeling that he would only tell me that I was too good for the work and to let the cleaners handle it. And that was the last thing I wanted.
Everything was exactly where it should be, a notion that mad
