After my father went off to meet his Maker, my brother decided I should take charge of absolutely everythingno questions asked. Immediately after the funeral, he left the keys to Dads flat in a neat pile on the table in front of me, as if it were a Tesco Clubcard.
Mum sat silently on the sofa like she was auditioning for a statue. I was clutching a folder stuffed with paperwork and wondering precisely when I became the designated adult. Dads departure was suddenno time for chats, negotiations, or sorting whod do what. It was a bit like being tossed in the deep end without even a rubber ring.
My brother lives in the same city, Manchester, but he always says hes got an incredibly stressful job. As if my work at an accountancy firm is just a relaxing stroll in Hyde Park, deadlines be hanged. Of course, none of that seemed to matter.
By the third day, my brother declared I was more organised and calmer, and apparently gifted at wrangling documents. That was my reward: a never-ending tour of offices, clutching originals and copies and certificates, queueing with a little slip of paper, feeling like contestant number 72 on Britains Got Bureaucracy.
My brother would ring up just to ask if everything was sorted. He rarely tagged along. Mum would quietly cry in the evenings as I tried to tidy Dads wardrobe, folding his shirts one by one and placing them in boxes, as if this were some kind of mystical ritual. My brother claimed he couldnt set foot in Dads roomtoo much for him. He said it felt heavy. Well, it wasnt exactly light for me either.
Id get home at night and sit in the dark, but the next day, up Id get and carry on. Eventually, it was time to decide what would happen with Dads flat. My brother suggested we sell it, so it wouldnt be a burden. I asked, innocently enough, where Mum would live. He explained, ever the pragmatist, that Mum could simply move in with me, as I have more space.
Mum just stared at the floorboards like she was waiting for them to speak. That was the moment I realised my brother had decided, all on his own, and I barely got a look-in.
When we gathered to hash out the details, my brother talked prices, estate agents, deadlineslike a walking episode of Location, Location, Location. I talked about how Mum was waking up at night, looking for Dad, as if he might pop out of a wardrobe. My brother sighed dramatically and said, We have to be practical.
That word echoed in my head. I am practical. I pay my bills on time, I plan my budget, I even colour-code my spreadsheets. What I couldnt accept was treating Mum like she was just another item on the ledger.
A few days later, my brother showed up brandishing a mediation contract, sticking it on the kitchen table and sliding me a pen, as if we were signing a treaty. I asked if hed spoken to Mum. He said she was not up to dealing with these things. Mum gripped the edge of the tablecloth with the determination of a champion tug-of-war player.
I slid the contract right back at him. Told him I wouldnt sign until Mum told us what she wanted. My brother was instantly cross, insisting I always complicated things. I didnt raise my voicejust repeated that it was Dads and Mums home.
After that night, my brother stopped ringing every day. Instead, he sent terse texts about bills and deadlines. Mum stayed with me for a while. In the mornings, I make her tea and leave the mug on the table. Mum spends ages gazing out the window as if shes waiting for an answer from the clouds.
Dads flat still hasnt been sold. I keep paying the electricity and water bills so nothing gets cut off. Sometimes I wonder if my brother sees me as his sister or simply the person meant to shoulder all the burdens he doesnt fancy.
I dont want to feud with my brother, nor do I want to let Mum down. I just stand somewhere between the twoa folder full of forms and the sneaking suspicion that if I dont speak up, decisions will be made for me.
Is it right to stop the sale, even if its causing a rift between my brother and me?
