Without saying a word, I walked straight to my room. When I opened the door, I found it filled with clutter, and none of my belongings were in sight.
Turning to Melanie, I asked, "Mom, what happened here?"
She hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "You've been gone for so long, and the house is small with lots of stuff, so we stored everything in your room."
"And my things?" I pressed.
Melanie looked down. Her guilt was evident. "Sold or thrown away. They're all gone."
My heart sank again. "Mom, I was in prison, not dead. Was it necessary to clear out all my things?"
When my father, Seamus Kessler, heard this from the sofa, he casually said, "Nina, Greta is five months pregnant and needs space for baby stuff. The house is cramped. Your things weren't needed anymore, so we got rid of them."
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. My father used to love organizing my things, saying he wanted to create a collection of my most meaningful belongings to give me as a wedding gift someday. Why didn't he care that they were all gone now?
"Where am I supposed to stay?" I asked.