The drawer you keep meaning to sort.

The one everyone asks.

Your partner calls from the paediatrician — they need your son's insurance number. The school wants his vaccination record by Friday. Your mother needs a policy number off a letter she's already lost. And somewhere in a drawer is a warranty receipt for the washing machine that just died. Only you would know where to even start digging.

Forty years of paper, all at once.

You've just helped a parent downsize. Now four decades of documents are yours — old bills, letters, certificates — and you don't know what matters or where anything is.

The papers that can't be reordered.

You watched the coverage of the floods and thought: if that happened here, ours would be gone. The birth certificates. The insurance policies. The mortgage papers.

The drawer you keep closing.

There's a drawer you've been meaning to sort for two years. You know exactly which one. Every time you open it, you close it again.