Page 4 of Used By the Merciless Bratva

His low “oh” spoke volumes.

My parents’ death was why he and his wife became my foster parents. Knowing how hard it was for me to deal with it then, they religiously avoided talking about my real parents, especially their sequential deaths.

While they paid for me to go into therapy, considering how young I was when I became an orphan, they never pressed me to do anything concerning my real parents. Most of my parents’ belongings, except for the furniture and other items that were discarded, were passed down to me.

Since the house was gone, one of the social services staff helped me find a storage company that offered long-term storage in container units. My foster parents were aware of the arrangement. They were also aware that I had never been to the storage unit since the first time.

“They’re taking the storage units apart to build something there,” I disclosed.

“So, you have to retrieve your parents’ things?”

I was about to answer when I heard my foster mom’s distant voice.

“Who’s retrieving what?” she questioned.

“Hey, honey. You’re back early today. It’s Kat.”

I scrunched up my face at the sound of their smooching; even virtually, they taunted me with their PDA.

“How have you been, visiting professor?” she asked.

“Hello, Mom. We spoke a few weeks ago.”

“Many months ago,” she corrected, chuckling. “What were you both talking about?”

“She has to go get her parents’ things. The space is to be occupied by some new property,” Dad explained.

“Do you want me to go with you, honey? For moral support? I could take a three-day break; it’s nothing,” she offered.

“No, no, Mom. I’ll go. I’ll probably dispose of most things there, anyway.”

“Okay, dear.”

“When are you planning to go?” Dad asked.

“Maybe next Friday, if the day’s task remains virtual as planned.”

“That way, you can do it in advance and have the day free?” Dad pointed out.

“Exactly,” I answered.

“Okay. We’re always available if you want to talk,” Mom said.

“Of course, I know, Mom,” I replied. “How’s the shop?”

“Fine. It’s always baked goods season, you know.”

“Yeah. I have to run now, else I’ll be late for work.”

“Alright, take care, dear,” Mom said.

“Call us if you need anything,” Dad added.

“I will. Bye!”

“Bye,” they replied, ending the call.

Saying it out made it sound more real and urgent: I was going to retrieve things I hadn’t seen in several years.