I’d known this day was coming for over four years. There was no way I, or any of my siblings, could inherit the house. For one thing, the value of it was far too high. For another, who would want a seven-bedroom house?
No, it wasn’t a mini-mansion, it was just an Eichler that my parents added onto so that each kid would have their own room. The ability of each of us to have our own private space was important to Mom and Dad. Any wonder that I chafe at working in cubicles and bullpens?
Not only had I known the day was coming, I had been working, along with my siblings, for over four years to get to this point, to get to the point where there was little enough left in the house that we could start talking seriously to a real estate agent about listing it, what we would need to do to show it, and so forth.
See, as each of us moved out, Mom had filled each room with a different project. There was a room full of genealogical research, one full of photos–OK, several full of photos–and so forth. And there were books in every room. And a piano. And thousands of CDs. And VHS tapes.
Yes, VHS. No, not pre-recorded, although there were some of those. These were all hand-labeled, recorded by Mom.
Almost all of that was gone when I walked out for the last time, and so I had a sense of accomplishment and relief along with a deeper feeling that I sensed lurking, but couldn’t quite touch yet.