Our never-ending box of plastic wrap has ended.
My husband’s father died long before my husband and I met, and his father’s estate went entirely to his widow (his second wife, not my husband’s mother, who died before my husband’s father). When the widow was failing, she turned the house over to her stepsons, and so before we were married, my husband and I drove out to the house to lay claim to what we wanted.
Mostly it was about what my husband wanted, because I did not want to vulturize this stranger’s house. But there was a box of restaurant-grade Reynold’s Film (plastic wrap) there, and we took that along with some furniture, linens (which we still use), rugs, and artwork.
The brother took what he wanted, and the rest got sold through an estate sale. The house went on the market, was sold, and the widow split the proceeds between my husband and his brother. That was the down payment on our house.
This was 23 years ago. Tonight, I used up the last of the plastic wrap.
I feel sad about the plastic wrap. Apart from one VHS video, the plastic wrap was my only connection to my father-in-law, whom I never met (I’m pretty sure that the rugs and linens were the widow’s choices, and they remain, so that’s fine) .
For 23 years, I have been able to count on plastic wrap. Now I’m going to have to put it on a shopping list.