Twelve chipped jars. That is what I walked away with after three years of watching the light fade out of Mama’s eyes.

Wanda walked in like she owned the place the day after the funeral. She didn’t even bother to take her coat off. She just started pointing at things. She took the good china, the grandfather clock, and the heavy oak table.

“You always did love junk,” she said. She dropped a cardboard box on the counter. It hit with a heavy thud.

She walked over to the cabinet and pulled out those twelve jars. They were shaped like roosters and pigs, painted in colors that had faded back when the mill was still running in town.

“The lawyer said you get the house and those savings bonds,” she said. She didn’t look at me when she said it. “I get the rest.”

I didn’t say a word. I’m a man of few words, and I learned a long time ago that arguing with Wanda is like shouting into a storm. It doesn’t change the weather.

“Fitting, for the one who never amounted to much,” she whispered.

She turned on her heel and left. The house felt too big after that. It was just me, the silence, and those twelve jars sitting in a box on the kitchen counter.

I went to work the next morning at the shop. Harold was there, tinkering with a radiator, and we didn’t talk much. We never do. I just kept thinking about those jars. It didn’t make sense. Why would Wanda let me have the house and the savings bonds, but make a point to take every single thing of value except for that box of ceramic animals?

I came home at 5:12 in the evening. The house was cold. I turned on the oven to heat up some stew, but I couldn’t get my mind off those jars.

I set them out on the counter. They were dusty. They smelled like Mama’s pantry, a mix of cinnamon and old wood.

I filled the sink with warm water and grabbed a rag. I started with the smallest rooster. It was light as a feather. I washed it, dried it, and set it on the towel.

Then I grabbed the fat pig. It was heavy. Heavier than it should have been.

I tipped it over to let the water drain out. Something slid inside. It didn’t sound like ceramic hitting ceramic. It sounded like paper.

I went still. The water was running, but I couldn’t hear it anymore.

“Just a marble,” I told myself.

But I knew it wasn’t a marble. My heart started thumping against my ribs. I turned off the faucet. The silence in the kitchen was loud.

I pried the lid off the pig. It was stuck, sealed with some old wax. I had to use a butter knife to wedge it open.

Inside, tucked under a folded, yellowed dishrag, was a small envelope. It was wrapped in plastic.