Sounds like me and my late father, Ruby, except in my case I did take the box. The next time I visited, there was another box. "Dad, that's not my stuff." "Oh? Maybe it's your sister's?" A month later, the box gets shipped to my house. Some gets passed to charities, most gets trashed.

This pattern continued for the next several years. Never, ever "my stuff." Just junk my father wanted to get rid of.

Looking back, it may have been signs of my father's impending dementia, not just him being an asshole. Really hard to make that call with my father. 😐