Chapter 13 - The Auction of Memories
In the autumn of that year, my father’s prediction about Brent’s financial trajectory came fully true. Without the cushion of the family estate and unable to secure a stable job after the audit, Brent defaulted on his personal debts. To avoid total bankruptcy, he was forced to liquidate his remaining assets, including the storage units containing the heirlooms and furniture he had managed to extract from my grandfather’s house before the sale.
Because the items technically belonged to the broader family estate under the trust’s historical provisions, Daniel Cho advised me that I had the first right of refusal to purchase the items before they went to public auction.
"I don't want his furniture, Daniel," I said over the phone as I reviewed the auction catalog.
"It's not about the furniture, Julia," Daniel replied gently. "Look at page twelve. He’s selling your grandfather’s desk. And the family archives. The original letters from when your great-grandparents immigrated. If you don't buy them, they'll be sold to an antique dealer for scrap paper."
I looked at the catalog image. There it was: the heavy, dark mahogany desk where my grandfather had taught me how to balance a checkbook when I was twelve years old. The desk where he had signed the original trust that was supposed to protect us all. Brent had dragged it to a dirty storage facility, and now it was being sold to pay off his credit cards.
The auction was held on a cold Saturday morning in a drafty warehouse near the industrial district. I didn't want to go alone, so Daniel came with me, his steady presence a comfort against the cold and the grime.
As we walked through the rows of labeled lots, I saw Brent.
He was standing near the back of the warehouse, wearing a faded jacket, arguing with the auctioneer’s assistant about the reserve prices. He looked diminished, his posture defensive, his voice lacking the booming authority he used to project when he thought he was the rightful heir to the Mercer dynasty.
When he saw me approaching, he stopped talking. The assistant took the opportunity to walk away, leaving Brent alone amidst the wreckage of his inheritance.
"Come to bid on my misery, Julia?" he asked, a bitter, hollow smile appearing on his face.
"I'm here for Grandpa’s desk, Brent," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "And the family papers. They shouldn't be in a place like this."
Brent looked at the desk, which sat between a rusted lawnmower and a stack of old tires. "Yeah, well, things change. The bank doesn't care about family history. They want their money."
"You could have asked me for help with the archives," I said, the tragedy of the situation striking me all at once. "I would have taken them off your hands without the auction."
"And let you hold it over my head?" Brent laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "No thanks. I’d rather sell it to a stranger. At least a stranger doesn't look at me like I'm a criminal."
"You look at yourself that way, Brent," I said softly. "That’s why it hurts so much."
He opened his mouth to shoot back a defensive retort, but the auctioneer’s gavel struck the block at the front of the room, signaling the start of the bidding. Brent swallowed his words, looked away from me, and walked toward the exit. He didn't stay to watch his things be sold. He couldn't bear to see exactly how much his legacy was worth to the highest bidder.
Daniel stepped up beside me as the auctioneer called out the lot number for my grandfather’s desk.
"Do we bid?" Daniel asked.
"Yes," I said, lifting my paddle. "Bring it home."
May you like
We won the lot without a fight. No one else in the room cared about an old, heavy desk or boxes of yellowed letters written in a language no one else understood. As the movers loaded the mahogany desk into the back of Daniel’s truck, I touched the polished wood. It felt cold, but clean. The memories were no longer hostage to Brent's debts. They were back where they belonged.
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