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The Lawrence family had lost their father. A good man. He had lived long and well and left behind the things a life collects—rugs, paintings, tools, a fine coat or two. He left them to his son, John. John kept a few pieces that held the weight of memory. The rest stood in silence, filling rooms that were now too full of his father's shadow. The house itself had become a burden—unsold, costly, and heavy with the past. He thought of selling it all. But how? An estate sale would cheapen what had meaning. Online markets were endless, impersonal. The garage was crowded with tools he did not know how to price. The art and rugs were beautiful, but who would know their worth? It was too much for one man to manage. He needed help.

It happened on a Tuesday. Abbie got the call—the kind that makes your heart do jumping jacks. New York! Her dream job! The company she'd stalked on LinkedIn and imagined herself striding into with confidence and caffeine. Her husband Mark—ever the supportive, work-from-anywhere type—was already googling bagel spots and pretending he could parallel park in Manhattan. Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't. Because now they had to move. And not just move—shrink. Their cozy three-bedroom home was about to become a Manhattan apartment, otherwise known as "a closet with ambition." Five years of marriage had quietly turned them into sentimental hoarders: furniture they didn't use, a 70-inch TV that felt betrayed, and enough gadgets to open a small appliance museum—ice cream maker, bread machine, popcorn contraption. Each a souvenir from a lifestyle that lasted exactly one week. With the clock ticking and their garage glaring like a judgmental aunt, they faced the truth: half their stuff had to go, and the other half didn't fit.