Where The Lost Things Go

Date: 12/5/2025

Mat has lost his upper teeth. The important ones. The front-line soldiers of his smile — the ones people notice first, the ones that do half his socialising for him. And somehow, through either cosmic mischief or domestic misfortune, they’ve vanished. Evaporated. Slipped into that parallel universe where all socks, bobby pins, and dignity go. We’ve scoured the house: under the bed, behind radiators, inside coat pockets we forgot we owned. I even braved the back of the fridge, where old leftovers go to rumour. No teeth. Not a hint of dental residue. It’s as if they sprouted legs and marched off to freedom. Now he’s heartbroken, shuffling around the house with a scarf wrapped over his mouth like Kenny McCormick in mourning. He hasn’t smiled in two weeks. He has been speaking solely in muffled despair. Then — today — a miracle. His replacement teeth arrive. I snatch the package from the delivery man the way a desperate woman might clutch an emotional life raft. “Your new nashers have arrived,”I announce, breathless with relief. Mat’s eyes brighten, a sunrise after a fortnight of dental darkness. He scurries into the bathroom, clutching the box like the Holy Grail. I wait. I listen. I hear a chorus of effing and jeffing — some in octaves I didn’t know he could reach. “Everything okay in there?” I ask, already braced for disaster. The door creaks open. And… oh dear God. The teeth are enormous. Blindingly white — like Baz Whites after three bleaching sessions and a spiritual cleanse. They gleam with the dead-eyed sheen of childhood plastic toys. “I look rrrridddiculous,” he lisps, each syllable ricocheting off his own tongue like his mouth is rejecting the intruders. I want to laugh. I really do. But then I catch the flicker of humiliation in his eyes. That small, vulnerable part of him that can’t bear being watched. “We’ll get you some new ones, yeah?” I say. He nods — and the teeth catapult out of his mouth, bouncing off my shoulder and landing on the floor with a clatter that echoes through my soul. “Might need a cement mixer for those bad boys,” I try, but my humour doesn’t land. Later, we wander around town like two lost souls expecting to find a shelf labelled “Emergency Teeth — All sizes.” No dentists. No dental anything. It’s as if teeth are illegal contraband in this dream-world. Mat tightens his scarf. “Ffffuck my life,” he mutters, sounding like a depressed kettle. His mood nosedives into an abyss so deep I swear I can feel the gravity of it. I keep a safe distance in case emotional contagion is airborne. On the drive home, he swerves wildly — apparently losing his will to live and his depth perception. “Mat! Eyes on the road!” “Whaaat’s the point anymore?” he muffles, accelerating past a cyclist. The cyclist screams, “Suck a fuck!” It’s Leesa from work. Of course it is. I sink so low into the seat I might merge with the upholstery. Just before we plummet into certain death, reality snaps away and the scene shifts. Suddenly I’m in Kylie’s house, being greeted with hugs and kisses. I almost shrink back. Kylie hates me. Has for years. Yet here she is, smothering me with affection like a cult recruiter. Inside, balloons and banners hang everywhere. A mountain of presents sits on the table. “This is for all the time we’ve lost,” she beams. My gut flashes red like a faulty alarm. The dining table is covered in cakes — dozens of them. Some fresh, others vaguely embalmed. “Eat them,” she commands. There’s something feral in her eyes, so I shovel cake into my mouth like I’m Bruce Bogtrotter on death row. “Did you find the surprise inside?” she asks. “Surpr” Something hard scrapes down my throat. A toy. A bloody toy. Her expression says this was absolutely the plan. After surviving the confectionary assault, she drags me into a dressing room lined with hideous bridesmaid dresses — think 80s prom night after an electrical fire. “Pick one.” I choose the least offensive. She snatches it away. “Oh no, Amy has already claimed this one. She’ll look better in it too.” The words slice sharper than the toy still lodged in my oesophagus. My self-worth is hanging on by a thread of polyester. I end up in a pink ruffled monstrosity that clings to me like melted chewing gum. My reflection is a gift wrapped tragedy. “Yeah… those cakes,” Kylie giggles. “Pure fat.” Her eyes gleam with malice. The seams begin popping, one by one — like tiny gunshots announcing my public humiliation — just as the world shifts again. Now I’m by the sea. Wind thrashes my hair. Seagulls scream overhead like drunk banshees. Mum, Uncle John, and I skim pebbles. Uncle John, usually trapped in the haze of dementia, is suddenly bright, alive, laughing as stones bounce across the waves. “Did you see that one?” he asks. “I did. Best one yet.” It’s sweet. So sweet it aches. Then Mum turns to me. “Did you bring the Tupperware?” “I didn’t know we needed them.” Her face collapses into disappointment. “Amanda, we need that Tupperware.” “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I forgot.” “You forget a lot of things these days.” The words sting. Hard. My smile drops to the pebbles at my feet. Of course, I can’t get anything right. Terrible daughter. Terrible wife. Terrible friend. For a moment, I imagine myself as a pebble. Something small and weightless that could skim away into oblivion. Then — Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Footsteps behind me. I turn. It’s Mat. Scarf gone. Posture lifted. He looks strangely… complete. He’s smiling. “I found my teeth,” he says. Relief floods in — until he grins wider. And I freeze. Because those teeth — bright, neat, eerily perfect — aren’t his. They’re mine. My smile. My ease. My missing pieces. Somehow he’s wearing everything I keep misplacing: confidence, certainty, the part of myself that slips away while I’m too busy holding everyone else together. He looks whole. Restored. Found. And I feel suddenly hollow, pebble-light, like something essential has quietly migrated out of me and into him. He beams. “I told you they’d turn up.” And that’s when it hits me: He hasn’t found his teeth. He’s found where my lost things go. Because in this world, nothing disappears — it just rehomes itself inside whoever needs it more. A wave curls and retreats, carrying pebbles out into the dark water. And I wonder — If I let go completely, which part of me will wash up on someone else’s shore next?