The week between Christmas and New Year, nobody knows what day it is. I was cleaning out Mom's kitchen drawers because she asked me to and I didn't know how to say no to her anymore.
His name badge was in the third drawer, behind a prescription bottle with her name on it and three expired coupons. The badge said Earl. Blue plastic, cracked at the corner, photo faded to a ghost.
Twenty years he worked at that plant. Same machine, same shift, same lunch pail. I used to hear him come in at midnight and never got up to say hello.
I held the badge for a long time. Mom was watching from the doorway, waiting for me to decide what mattered.
I never once asked him what he made there. Not in twenty years. Not at his funeral. I stood up and pinned the badge to my jacket and she didn't stop me.
Some things you carry because you missed the chance to ask. That's different from carrying them because you're told to.