The Mother Load

Liv vs. Delilah in The Battle of the Belongings

Author’s Note

Hi! If you’re new here—welcome!

This post is a Liv-ing Story, where I take real-life experiences and weave them into fiction, told through my alter ego, Liv.

This story, The Mother Load: Liv vs. Delilah in The Battle of the Belongings, was inspired by my recent experience helping move my mom back to her hometown in Arkansas.

It has been moments filled with nostalgia, negotiation, and—let’s just say—a strong difference of opinion on what constitutes a necessary possession.

If you’re curious about the world of Liv and Delilah, I invite you to read The Angler—a five-part series that introduces their dynamic in a story about catch and release dating.

For a broader look at what I write—both fiction and personal essays—check out my About page to learn more about the difference between Liv-ing Stories and No Small Parts.

Now, let’s get into it—because believe me, Liv had a lot to say about this move.

~ Linzi

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Mom and I had been locked in negotiations for months.

She was preparing to leave the Kansas home she’d lived in for 36 years, downsizing to a new place in Arkansas that was half the size.

The movers were arriving in two days, and the pressure was on to have everything boxed and ready.

I was fighting for efficiency. She was fighting for… well, everything.

We were deep in the trenches of packing up the kitchen when the sheer volume of things started making me nauseous.

I picked up an egg slicer, still in its original packaging. “Mom,” I sighed, “do we really need to take this?”

She barely looked up from the long row of margarita glasses she was carefully wrapping in paper—despite the fact that she didn’t drink, I didn’t drink, and those glasses hadn’t been used in over 25 years.

“Liv, how else would I slice a hard-boiled egg?”

With one of the two dozen knives you’re taking?

“Mom, it’s never been used. And you don’t even eat hard-boiled eggs.”

She shook her head back and forth. “I might start! They’re good for you.”

And that was the problem. Everything had a future use.

She needed 64 dinner plates for the elaborate dinner party she might host, someday.

She needed those pristine, unworn shoes because they’d be perfect for a vacation she might take, someday.

And that vacuum-seal food storage contraption from the Home Shopping Network? She’d figure out how to use it, someday.

Meanwhile, logic was useless in our negotiations.

---

Mom bristled whenever I called her a hoarder, so I stopped.

Instead, I took to calling her one of those people—the kind who squirrel away enough cast iron skillets to supply three generations.

And though I couldn’t fully relate, I understood the root of her mentality.

Delilah was the third of five siblings, born into an Ozark family living in poverty.

She never realized just how little they had—until the year she turned seven.

Every June, her family traveled from Arkansas to Michigan to pick blueberries—a seasonal migrant job that barely put food on their table for the rest of the year. But that summer, something shifted.

That was the year she befriended the farm owner’s daughters.

They were close to her age, but they weren’t out in the fields with stained fingers, carrying wooden buckets. They played in the shade, their laughter carrying on the breeze, twirling in dresses more delicate, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.

It was the first time she noticed—not just the dresses, but the difference.

She saw what they had that she didn’t.

And she hated how that difference made her feel.

At some point—maybe that summer in Michigan, maybe later—little Delilah must have made herself a quiet promise.

One day, I’ll have all the things I want.

And she did.

She surrounded herself with them.

So many, in fact, that they filled all seven bedrooms, spilled into the garage, and took up residence in the attic.

So many that, whenever I stepped inside her world, I felt like I was drowning.

---

When I arrived at Mom’s house on the heels of my stepdad’s passing, I walked through the door with not much more than my dog and a duffle bag.

That was all I had.

All I needed.

I had spent 2023 performing a hard reset on my life—ruthlessly stripping it down to its bare essence, paring away the excess until I could hold it all in my arms and say:

This is enough.

While most of my peers were still accumulating, I was unburdening.

While Mom’s house swelled with the weight of a lifetime of acquiring objects, I had whittled my existence down to a feather.

She kept everything, just in case.

I kept nothing I wasn’t actively using.

Her home was filled with potential—every closet, cabinet, and drawer brimming with items that were purchased on sale and might come in handy someday.

My home furnishings were stored inside a 10 x 15 unit in Pinole, California.

Mom was holding on.

I was letting go.

---

The moving crew rolled up in a black Ford F-250, and a 26-foot U-Haul. Three men stepped out, looking like they’d just come from tossing hay bales and wrangling cattle.

These were the movers that everyone in the Ozarks recommended.

Cowboy Red led the trio—easily 250 pounds of pure muscle, with a sunbaked complexion that suggested SPF had never once touched his skin. His t-shirt and jeans clung to him like Saran Wrap.

J.C., a former high school football star, was built like a brick wall. He moved slow, like he was conserving energy until it was go time.

And then there was Bobby Jo, the youngest and lankiest of the bunch, who probably started driving tractors before he could read.

I opened the door for them.

“Ma’am,” Cowboy Red greeted me, shaking my hand with a rough and strong grip.

“Hi, I’m Liv.” I shook the hands of the other two as they filed inside. “This is my mom, Delilah.”

They took a look around, surveying the house, the boxes, the unfinished packing.

“Y’all still workin’ on this?” Cowboy Red’s thick country drawl stretched out each syllable like taffy.

Mom melted at the familiar accent.

“Ohhh, you’re my kinda people,” she purred, pressing a hand to her heart. “Where are you from, sweetheart?”

Cowboy Red grinned, adjusting his belt buckle. “Born and raised in Calico, ma’am.”

“Well, I knew I liked you,” she cooed, tilting her head just slightly. “A proper gentleman.”

I closed my eyes. Oh God.

Cowboy Red chuckled. “Ain’t nobody ever accused me of that before.”

Mom let out a tsk and swatted the air. “Well, they should! And you can call me Lilah.”

I cut in before she started fanning herself. “Mom.”

She ignored me completely, still smiling up at Cowboy Red.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you were sayin’ you’re almost done packin’?”

She let out a gentle laugh. “We’re just about there, darlin’.”

Ew.

Also, we weren’t just about there.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her back toward the bathroom, where an unholy amount of beauty products were still sitting in cabinets and drawers.

“You get back to work.”

I turned to the crew. “I’ll take you through the house and show you what goes and what stays.”

After the tour, Cowboy Red turned to his team. “Aight, boys. Let’s load up what’s ready.”

J.C. and Bobby Jo got to work hauling furniture while Cowboy Red organized and tied down the items as they entered the truck.

A couple hours later, I poked my head out the door and saw Mom holding court by the truck, all but batting her eyelashes at Cowboy Red.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled. “Of course I know the Hinkles.” He smacked his knee. “Hell, woman! We’re kinfolk!”

Mom clasped her hands together, delighted. “I knew we were related.”

Of course they’re related. Everyone in Arkansas is related.

J.C. and Bobby Jo wheeled out a dolly stacked with boxes.

“Y’all hear this?” Cowboy Red exclaimed. “We’re movin’ family today.”

“Well, shoot,” Bobby Jo grinned, dropping a box with a loud thunk. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Cowboy Red removed his hat, scratched his head. “You know, Miss Lilah, we got plenty of room in here. If there’s anything you was second-guessin’, we can make it fit.”

I about died.

I made a beeline to the truck to squash the idea.

“Hey, Mom,” I interrupted. “We’re finally out of boxes, and everything is taped up.”

I could practically see the phantom tentacles sprouting from her back, clawing back the items we had bagged for donation.

Cowboy Red put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You just let me know if you think of anything.”

“Nope.” I cut in. “We’re good.”

Mom sighed dramatically. “My daughter is…” She drug out the words like she could barely stand to say them. “…a minimalist.”

She could have said, My daughter doesn’t believe in Jesus, and it would have had the same accusatory tone.

Without hesitation, I shot back, “And my mom is a MAX-imalist.”

The guys exchanged looks.

Cowboy Red turned to Mom. “Well, now, Miss Lilah, if there’s somethin’ you’re on the fence about—”

“There isn’t,” I interjected.

He looked over at me. “—she can let me know.”

“She cannot,” I countered.

J.C. shifted uncomfortably, like he was suddenly regretting his decision to take this gig.

Bobby Jo stood frozen with a box in hand.

A long beat of silence stretched between us.

Finally, Cowboy Red let out a good-natured chuckle and threw up his hands.

“Aight, aight, ladies,” he stepped back. “Y’all work that out. We’ll just be over here gettin’ it done.”

I turned back to Mom.

She raised her eyebrows at me.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

Two could play this game.

---

---

The movers asked for a final walkthrough to make sure they had everything.

I made my way through the house and found Mom downstairs in one of the back bedrooms, standing by a closet with the air of someone about to drop a logistical nightmare into my lap.

“Oh, good,” she said, as if I’d arrived on cue. “Can you carry these guns to the truck?”

I blinked. Surely, I misheard.

“These what?”

“These guns,” she repeated casually, like she was asking me to grab a few extra throw pillows. “There’s eight of them here.”

I stood there. Staring. Waiting for the part where she said, Oh, Liv, I’m just joking!

Nothing.

“Mom,” I said slowly, my brain buffering. “Why am I just now learning this?”

Before she could answer, I threw up a hand. “And you do realize the movers specifically told me on the phone that they don’t transport firearms, right? To which I explicitly said, ‘That’s not a problem.’ Because—why in the world would we have any?!?!”

Mom rolled her eyes at my uptightness, as if I were making a big deal out of nothing. “Liv, they’re Ted’s. And you never know—we might need them. If the movers won’t take them, we have to.”

I pressed my forehead into my palms and refused to debate her suggestion that we needed to be packing heat. “Mom. You have nowhere to put them. If you open any car door besides the driver’s side, shit falls out.”

She raised her voice. “Well, we’re not leaving them here!”

I inhaled through my nose—long, slow—summoning every last ounce of patience in my body.

“Okay. Who can we call?” My brain scrambled for literally any person who could take them off our hands.

Except… What would that conversation even be?

“Hey, it’s Liv! Hope you’re doing well! Listen, I know we haven’t spoken since Junior High, but would you want eight guns? I’ll need to drop them off in the next 15 minutes.”

That sounded deranged.

I was at a total loss.

“Liv,” Mom said, her voice firmer now, “I’m not leaving without them.”

She crossed her arms, standing her ground like an old Western sheriff laying down the law.

I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling, summoning my stepdad to swoop down from the great beyond and collect his personal arsenal.

I sighed. Defeated. “Fiiiiine. I’ll take them.”

Mom clapped her hands together. “Thank you. They’re back here.”

I trudged over to the closet and pushed aside a wall of hanging coats.

And there they were.

Sitting on standby—eight shotguns, some triple and double barrels, one sawed-off, and one with a damn silencer on it—all casually propped against the wall like we were preparing for the end of days.

I looked at Mom. “Are these loaded?”

She furrowed her brows, tilting her head from her lack of knowledge. “I…”

“Oh my god. Nevermind.” I sighed, grabbing one in each hand like G.I. Jane. “Mom, this is so unhinged.”

I turned back before walking out of the room. “If I get arrested for arms trafficking, I expect you to bail me out.”

“Honey, we’re moving to The South — it’s gun country.”

---

Cowboy Red and his crew pulled away, the moving truck a little fuller than planned—courtesy of Mom’s last-minute maneuvering.

All that remained in the house would be cleared out in the coming weeks so we could get it ready to sell.

I walked back inside after burying my newly acquired contraband in the back of my Jeep.

Mom was sitting on the ledge in front of the fireplace. Still. Quiet.

For months, there had been nonstop activity—Ted’s service, family in town, house hunting, packing, logistics, distractions—all the things that kept us busy.

And now, there was just this—the skeleton of a home that had once cradled Mom’s whole life.

I should have been relieved.

We had done it.

But looking at her now in the empty living room, I felt her sadness. The sight formed a lump in my throat.

For the first time, I wasn’t fixated on what needed to be done.

I could feel what she was feeling—what she was leaving behind, who she had been here. In this house. In this town. In the life she built with my stepdad.

I sat down next to her.

“Mom.”

She turned, her eyes rimmed red.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know it’s just a house. I know we couldn’t take it all. But… I can still see it here.”

She motioned around the empty room. “Ted, having his coffee. Walking in from the farm. Sitting right there, watching the news.” She paused. “What if, when I leave, I can’t see it anymore? What if I forget?”

I didn’t tell her she wouldn’t forget. That memories don’t live in walls or furniture.

I didn’t tell her there were more experiences to have and memories to be made, even though there would be.

I just put my arm around her shoulders and let her lean into me.

And we sat there, saying nothing.

---

I followed Mom out to the car, wrapping her in a long hug before she climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You good?” I asked.

She nodded. “I’m good.”

I stepped back as she closed the door, adjusted her seat, and checked her mirrors.

I turned toward my Jeep and climbed inside.

I backed out of the driveway and made it to the intersection.

Sitting at the stop sign I looked up and down the street lined with houses I had memorized as a kid—the ones where childhood friends once lived, where porch lights had always flickered on at dusk.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Mom.

Still sitting in the driveway.

Still looking at the house.

The empty flower pots that lined the porch. The picture window that had framed a lifetime of moments. The red front door we had all walked through thousands of times. The house that had held her marriage, her family, her version of self.

She was lingering in the fragile space between holding on and letting go.

I thought about how we spend decades constructing a life—building our identities, filling rooms with things that tether us to who we believe we are.

And then, one day, we’re asked to leave it all behind.

Sometimes because we’ve outgrown it.

Sometimes because we realize it was never ours to keep.

And sometimes because time decides for us—just as it did for my stepdad.

That’s the paradox of this life.

We gather, we build, we hold tight.

And yet, inevitably, we have to let go.

In the mirror, I watched as Mom finally shifted into reverse.

Slowly, she backed out of the driveway, her car rolling onto the street.

She pulled up behind me and waved.

And together, we moved forward.

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