House

Looked at an open house this afternoon, and ran into an agent we met, and very much liked, before. We'd walked into an open house, maybe a year ago, knowing that a house was a long, long time into our future, and liked her then. It was way too much house, and we were very upfront about not really being in the market at that point. Now. Well, now we are thinking that a year, year and a half from now, we might just as well own our own place. So we are getting our ducks hatched, with an eye to getting them in a row. Getting all the finances in order, meeting agents at open houses, training our eyes, educating ourselves. It's going to be quite a process.

Then we came home, ate lunch, I drank some beer, and with great trepidation, called my mother. Strange, how I did not recognize her voice. I aggressively changed the subject as she got weepy, telling me this was "the greatest day of her life." What? That the daughter who had to work herself up for a month to talk to her finally called? And even then, it took some Dutch Courage? But I went on Full Entertainment Mode, and jollied her along. All positive and amusing, the complete show. I could not stand her gratitude. I fulfilled my sense of duty. It's not love, but a functional kindness. She asked if I was still with D. Which rather shocked me. And when I told D, rather offended him. I assured him that, after all, she doesn't know him.

I'd begun to feel like I was worse than my brothers who couldn't bother to tell me, for me not to call her. She has sold the house (for less, in actual dollar amount than they bought it for in 1952 - this is Detroit) and her DIL is finding her an apartment near the oldest son in Texas. She will have family around her, and Texans who are notorious for being friendly. I gave her my phone number, since my brothers are not bright enough to find us in the online white pages. I have no compulsion to answer the phone if I don't want to. I can call as I feel necessary.

She assured me that at the end he (her husband, my ass of a father) did not suffer. And I know this is not probably true. Oh, he suffered, but mostly from his self inflicted anger and bile. Nothing to do with me, but I am content. I would not have inflicted harm upon him, and obviously wishing is less than useless, but it bothers me not at all that he had a difficult and lingering death. Brother and mother say that he went peacefully, the details tell a different story, one I have told to family myself. I recognize the platitudes, the code. In the end, we all walk that last corner alone, fast or slow, painful or peaceful, and I will accept whatever kind of death is mine. He would not have done so, of that much I am certain. He would have resented and whined throughout, worst of all, lied to himself and everyone around. I have seen the deaths of liars and dramatists, the chronic complainers and haters, I know he had that kind of death. He made it himself, then had to lie in it.

I always wished she would have a few years of quiet, without him. Despite the fact that he was her choice, and she stayed with him. But part of me would have appreciated her going first, and me being able to tell him exactly what I really thought of him. So, one sin my soul will not be stained with. She will have her son, her DIL, sometimes her granddaughters and great granddaughters to visit, no more snow, a far place.



So I sit, strangely unemotional, and a bit intrigued. What just happened? And why? I must wait and watch. But at least I feel I have done the Right Thing. For good or ill.