As I stood in my late parents’ house, preparing to sell it, I couldn’t help but feel emotional. Weeks of cleaning, organizing, and reliving memories had left me drained. And just when I thought the ordeal was over, I received a call from my realtor, Sarah.
“Joyce, the new owners are complaining about some ‘garbage’ left in the garage,” Sarah said, clearly exasperated.
“Garbage?” I repeated, confused. “I cleaned that house from top to bottom. What are they even talking about?”
“They claim you left behind a pile of junk and want it gone immediately,” Sarah explained. “They’re even threatening to charge you for removal costs if you don’t take care of it.”
As a widowed single mother of three, I already had enough on my plate. But the thought of being charged for something that I knew wasn’t junk pushed me to take action.
“Alright,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll drive back and deal with it.”
After arranging childcare for my kids and taking a day off work, I made the two-hour trip to my parents’ old house. When I arrived and opened the garage, my irritation bubbled over.
“This is what they’re calling garbage?” I muttered, staring at the neatly stacked items.
Inside were leftover building materials: extra hardwood flooring, custom tiles, specialty paint cans, and even the middle section of a custom dining room table. These weren’t trash – they were valuable assets meant to match the home’s unique design.
I rolled up my sleeves and began loading the items into my van. But midway through, Thomas and Shelley Mitchell arrived. Shelley, with her designer sunglasses perched on her head, looked me over with thinly veiled disdain.
“Finally,” Thomas said, crossing his arms. “We’ve been waiting all day.”
“Is this what you’re calling junk?” I snapped, gesturing to the neatly stacked materials. “These are extra building supplies for the house – materials that match your floors, walls, and fixtures. I left them as a courtesy!”
“We don’t need your old leftovers,” Shelley said with a huff. “Take it all. We’re planning renovations anyway.”
I bit back a retort, finished loading the van, and drove away, mentally calculating how much I could sell the items for. If they didn’t want them, fine – I’d turn this into a win for my family.
A week later, I received another call from Sarah.
“Joyce,” she said, barely containing a laugh. “You won’t believe this. The Mitchells need those materials back. Apparently, their contractor told them they’re essential for the renovations, and matching replacements are hard to find.”