As I drove towards my mother’s house, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her passing bearing down on me. It had been a week since her funeral and now I was faced with the task of sorting out her affairs. It was a responsibility that always seemed to fall on my shoulders, the “rational” daughter. I had been the one to take care of her during her illness, sacrificing my time, career, and well-being to make sure she was never alone. I thought I knew her heart.
My husband, Dan, was sitting next to me in silence. The faint smell of alcohol still lingered on him, despite his promises to quit drinking. My patience was wearing thin as we pulled into the driveway and saw the lawyer waiting outside, briefcase in hand.
“Why are you out here?” I asked, already feeling the tension building. “Isn’t the door unlocked?”
“It’s locked,” he replied. “Your sister hasn’t arrived yet.”
Of course, Phoebe wasn’t there. She was always unreliable, drifting through life without a care while I dealt with the difficult moments. When she finally showed up, her disheveled appearance made it clear she wasn’t handling our mother’s death well. I wanted to criticize her, but the sadness in her eyes stopped me. I knew that losing Mom had hit her hard. She had always been Mom’s favorite.
As we sat down for the reading of the will, I braced myself for what was about to come. But nothing could have prepared me for the bombshell that was about to drop.
“The house and all assets go to Phoebe,” the lawyer announced.
“What?” I blurted out, my stomach dropping. Dan erupted beside me, pointing an accusatory finger at Phoebe. She ran out of the room, her face crumpling under the weight of the moment. I followed her to the backyard, where she sat on Mom’s favorite bench, looking like she might break.
“Sell me the house,” I said, my anger boiling over.