The day I got the keys, I stood on the porch for a long time before opening the door. I kept waiting for Mom’s voice, for her to call out from the kitchen. “You’re letting the cold in, honey!” she’d say.
But it was silent. The air inside was different, dry, stale, and still. But the memories were loud.
Mom’s furniture was still there, covered in linen sheets, soft with dust and time. The air smelled like aged wood, like dried flowers in a forgotten vase, and something almost metallic, maybe from the pipes or maybe from grief. I walked through every room slowly, like I might startle something if I moved too fast.
I hired a small team to begin the work. I had no intention of changing everything; I just wanted to bring the house back to its former glory. I wanted Mom to look down on us and smile.
I just wanted to preserve what mattered. Mikey, the contractor, was kind without being cloying. He had gentle eyes, a quiet sense of humor, and he didn’t ask too many questions when I disappeared into Mom’s closet for 20 minutes and came out with tear tracks on my face.
On the third day of demolition prep, I was in the kitchen pouring coffee when I heard him call out from the hallway. “Anna?” His voice was calm but curious. “You’re going to want to see this.”
I set the mug down and followed the sound of his voice.
He was kneeling in Mom’s room, the carpet pulled back, the floorboards exposed. He looked up at me and held out something carefully with both hands. It was a thin, yellowed envelope, fragile around the edges.
My name was written on the front, in my mother’s handwriting. I took it with both hands, as if it might break apart. The envelope smelled faintly of rose water and dust.
Mom. My fingers trembled as I opened it, half-expecting it to vanish in my hands, like something imagined in a dream. Inside was a folded letter and a will, Mom’s real will.
It split everything, the house, the savings, the heirlooms, all right down the middle. It was clear and direct. And notarized.Continue reading…
