After my father went to meet his Maker, my brother decided that I should handle everything, and not ask questions.
After the funeral, my brother left the keys to the flat on the table in front of me. Mum sat silently on the old sofa, her hands folded in her lap. I gripped a folder stuffed with papers, unsure when Id become the person expected to sort everything out.
My father left suddenly. There was no time for conversations, no time to agree, no time to share out responsibilities.
My brother lives in the same city, but he always says his job is demanding. I work in an accountancy office and I have deadlines too, but apparently that doesnt matter.
By the third day, my brother declared I was more organised and calmer, and better with documents. So I began wandering from office to office, carrying originals, photocopies, certificates. I queued for hours, holding little numbered tickets.
My brother only phoned to ask if things were sorted. He rarely accompanied me.
Mum would cry at night as I tidied Dads wardrobe. I folded his shirts, one after another, putting them away in boxes.
My brother told me he couldnt even step into Dads room. He said it was too heavy for him.
I, too, would sit in the dark after coming home in the evenings. But the next morning, Id get up and carry on.
Then came the time to decide what would happen to Dads flat. My brother suggested selling it, so it wouldnt be a burden to anyone.
I asked where Mum would live. My brother said she could move in with meI have the larger house, after all.
Mum didnt speak, only stared at the carpet.
At that moment, I realised my brother had already made his decision, without asking.
When we sat down to go over the details, my brother talked about prices, agents, deadlines. I talked about Mum wakeful at night, searching for Dad in the shadows.
My brother sighed and said, We need to be practical.
That word echoed inside my head.
I am practical. I pay my bills on time. I plan my budget. But I couldnt accept the idea that Mum was just another item in the balance sheet.
A few days later, my brother brought a contract for an estate agent. He put it on the kitchen table and handed me a pen.
I asked if hed spoken with Mum. He replied that she didnt have the strength for this sort of thing.
I looked at Mum; her hands gripped the edge of the tablecloth.
I slid the contract back to him.
I said I wouldnt sign until Mum told us what she wanted. My brother grew angry, insisting I always complicated things.
I didnt raise my voice. I simply repeated that this was Dad and Mums home.
After that night, my brother stopped phoning every day. He started communicating through textsabout bills, deadlines.
Mum stayed with me for now. In the mornings, I brew her tea and leave the cup by her side. She sits for long stretches gazing out the window.
Dads flat is still unsold. I keep paying the electricity and water, so nothing gets cut off.
Sometimes I wonderdoes my brother see me as a sister, or just the one meant to carry his load?
I dont want to quarrel with my brother. I dont want to betray Mum.
Between them stands me, with my folder of paperwork, aware that if I keep quiet, everything will be decided without me.
Is it right to halt the sale, even if it breeds tension with my brother?
