“I also fixed the roof, managed all her care, gave up a full-time career, and spent over seventy thousand dollars on the house and her needs over twelve years. Are you making up those facts too?”
Silence.
“You chose to do that,” he said finally.
“Yes. I chose it. And I didn’t charge her for it, because she was my mother and I loved her. But I also didn’t get free housing. I got a place to sleep in exchange for being the person who was there every single day.”
“I sent money every month.”
“Three hundred dollars a month for about six of the twelve years and less or nothing before that. I have the records, Daniel. I have them organized by month.”
Another silence. This one was different.
“I’m not looking to fight,” he said. “I’m looking for what’s fair.”
“Then let’s agree on what fair looks like based on what actually happened. Not based on your spreadsheet.”
He said he’d “think about it.” He said the estate needed to be handled efficiently. He said he hoped we could “come to an understanding.”
I got off the phone and called Maya.
Maya and I had met at the property management firm where I’d worked full-time, a dozen years ago. She’d moved on to a different company, then gone independent as an office manager for hire, which meant she understood both business operations and the particular frustrations of working for people who were unorganized. She had been one of the few people in my life who had consistently treated my caregiving as real work and not a lifestyle choice.