13November2025 Evening
The house was unusually quiet tonight, so quiet you could hear the neighbours turning on the kettle in the flat next door. Yet there was a sour feeling gnawing at my heart, as if a cat were clawing at the inside of my chest. I lay on the sofa, stared at the ceiling, and could not shake the single heavy thought that kept looping through my mind all because of that old wardrobe.
It wasnt any ordinary piece of furniture. It was a solid, redmahogany wardrobe built in the style of the 1970s, the sort my late father, George, had assembled with his own two hands. Hed fitted the glass shelves with the help of the whole family, laughing as they went. After his death it ended up in my sister Lilys bedroom, holding my niece Rosies toys.
Yesterday Lily burst into the kitchen, eyes bright with a modern vision:
Mum, lets get rid of that monster and buy something from IKEA a light, sleek piece. This thing is all dry, the doors stick, and it looks anything but proper.
She trudged off to work, leaving me staring at the wardrobe as if it were a beast. Monster, I thought. To George, that wardrobe had been his pride; he would point to the perfectly jointed seam and say, Look at this, I chose the right ply. Lily, when she was little, loved to sit in the lower compartment as if it were a little house. Now even Rosie uses it as a play area.
When my old schoolfriend Valentina called the next morning, she teased, Why are you hanging on to that junk? Toss it and be happy. The kids will decide what they want theyre the ones living in it now. Youll have more space.
Easy for you to say, I sighed. It just
She cut me off, No just! Youre not a tin of preserves needing to keep the old stuff forever.
Two days later Lily and her husband Peter were poring over furniture catalogues, measuring the room with a tape measure, and scrolling through websites. I stayed silent, but I kept running my hand over the smooth panels, feeling the brass knob George had spent weeks searching for to match the rest of the wood.
One afternoon Rosie jammed the lock on the lower drawer, and it wouldnt open. I gave the front a gentle shake, applied the pressure George had taught me, and the latch clicked open.
Grandma, youre a wizard! she squealed.
It was Granddads trick, I breathed out.
That evening I called a family meeting. Lily, Peter, Rosie with her doll, and I gathered around the wardrobe.
Im not going to sell it or throw it away, I began, my voice trembling. I cant.
Lily exhaled, Mum, we agreed
Hold on. I havent finished. You dont need it here I do. Ill put it in my own room where theres space for my clothes and fabrics. And Rosie can have a new, pretty one as you want.
A heavy silence fell over the flat.
Wont it be cramped for you? Lily asked.
It will be comfortable. My memories are folded into those drawers. My fathers hands built them. It isnt a monster; its a home, and Im taking it with me.
Peter shrugged at Lily, If thats what you truly want
Rosie ran up and hugged me, Yay! My little house stays!
The next day we began the move. I barked orders like a general, Mind the corners! Hold the doors steady! We reerected the wardrobe in my bedroom. The space felt tighter, almost claustrophobic, but in a comforting way.
When Lily peeked in later, she asked, Hows it feeling, Mum?
Its settled, I replied firmly, then added after a pause, You know, Lily I didnt just take it for myself. It now looks after me.
Lily watched my hands rest on the dark wood, as if they were touching something living. A strange pity and a new feeling flickered in her eyes.
Alright, she sighed. The important thing is youre happy.
I spent the evening rearranging the bedroom, shifting the bed so the wardrobe wasnt cramped but a companion. With Peters help I placed the linens on the upper shelves, and in the pullout drawer I packed old photo albums, Georges letters from his overseas postings, and faded postcards my sister sent from a school camp. I left the lower compartment empty for Rosies toy house, letting her continue to play. The whole thing felt less like a wardrobe and more like an ark.
Later, Lily rushed in looking for a bag and found me at the kitchen table, a stack of photographs in my lap.
Mom, whats this? she asked.
Just reminiscing, I said, smiling at the empty air. Look, this is George, proudly standing beside the wardrobe he built. You were three then, perched on his knee, feeding him a sweet.
Lily sat down, took a picture, and frowned. She didnt recall much of that time; her father was a blurred figure in my stories, and the wardrobe was just an old, inconvenient piece of furniture to her.
He spent a week assembling it, I whispered. He wanted it to be our familys stronghold.
Lily stared at the happy face of my father in the photo, his hand resting confidently on the wood. For the first time she didnt see a relic; she saw a monument to his craftsmanship, my mothers memory, and my own childhood tucked inside that drawer.
What if we restore it? Lily suggested, voice soft. Peter can fit new hinges, sand the front a bit, and give it a fresh coat of lacquer. Hes always tinkering in the garage.
Hope lit Lilys eyes. I felt a blush of shame for having called it a monster.
Really? I managed to say.
Of course. Just tell me what colour you want the lacquer. Maybe a lighter shade so the room feels brighter.
No, I answered straight away. Leave it as Dad intended. Just fix whats broken so it can keep serving. So Rosie can still hide her secrets inside.
Peter repaired the wardrobe, tightening loose joints, swapping the hinges, and polishing the glass. It stood proudly in my room, still the same solid mahogany, now gleaming with a quiet, obedient click when the doors closed.
One afternoon Rosie, playing on the carpet, asked, Grandma, did Granddad really make this wardrobe?
Indeed, sunshine.
He was brilliant, she said seriously. Its sturdy.
I ran my hand over the wood as one would pat a loyal dog. Yes, dear, sturdy enough to last a hundred years.
I caught Lilys eye from the doorway; she smiled, not condescendingly but with genuine warmth and a new understanding. The wardrobe was no longer a source of dispute. It had become the silent keeper of time, reflecting not just the room but our shared story past, present, and the future I felt confident would be preserved.
Lily later slipped into the room, perched on the edge of the bed, and rested her hand on the smooth surface. Peter says we could fit subtle lighting in the upper shelves, so you dont have to turn on the big chandelier when youre looking for something at night. And well finally get that drawer for Rosies crafts to glide smoothly.
Tears welled in my eyes, but they were not sorrowful; they were the tears of acknowledgment. I was no longer the sole guardian of this stronghold. I now had a small garrison.
Thank you, Lily, I whispered.
Thank you, Mum, for stopping us from making a huge mistake, for reminding us why we keep the old things.
That evening we brewed tea in the kitchen. Lily, without being asked, brought out an old photo album. We leafed through it together with Rosie, and Lily pointed out, Heres your Granddad George, standing by the wardrobe. See how proud he looks? Rosie nodded solemnly.
The wardrobe remained where it belonged, no longer a bulky eyesore but a cherished part of the family. It stood mute, yet it was the most reliable witness that the truly valuable things are not the newest trends but the memories and the warmth of hands that built, kept, and now pass them on.
*Lesson learnt: preserving what our loved ones have crafted, even when it feels outdated, can anchor a familys story far better than any fresh purchase.*
