In a heart-shaped box, my mother kept her children’s teeth. It was the only thing my father let her keep after the divorce.

Whenever my brothers and I stayed at her apartment for the weekend, she would move the box from her bedroom to the mantle of the fireplace. She would refresh us on the many unorthodox methods we’d use to pull our loose teeth out. There would be the typical string on the doorknob method, and then something new we tried where we shoved dad’s tools in our mouths. It was an excruciating process, but we were impatient for our tooth fairy money, for our eight quarters.

The box didn’t have the perfect edges, or bright colors. Our mother didn’t even know where she got it. The old price tag didn’t give much away, only providing the cheap price of three dollars. It was something that could have been in the messy, unorganized shelves in the farthest section of the thrift store. It smelled like roses.

When I turned eight, I started stealing from my father. Every little ivory statue my father took, I brought back to her. Soon, her dresser became a mini zoo. She’d never scold me, of thank me for that matter until I moved on to stealing money. Small wads of cash worth hundreds. Thousands if I got lucky enough find them.

When I turned ten, my father found out. While they argued, I sheltered myself in my bedroom. I held my brothers on either side of me as they simpered and cried. We knew we’d be ripped from this place, whipped afterwards by his leather. The smell of roses was stronger than ever. I pried myself from my sibling to start grabbing clothes from the closet. So much fell onto me then that I was on the floor.

Teeth scattered on the carpet. So much teeth. More teeth than when she first kept the three of ours.

My mother must have bought new heart shaped boxes with the money, but where did she get more teeth?

Before I could ask, before I could discern weather the brown on the canines was dried blood or a cavity, my father rangled us into his car and drove us home. We didn’t even have our shoes on. Our father told us he’d get them later.

When he did, he never came back.