I had been paying close attention.
The service was held at Greenbrook Methodist, where she’d been a member for forty years. About ninety people came, which surprised me — I hadn’t thought to estimate the number and ninety felt like a lot and also like not enough. Daniel gave a eulogy that was genuinely good. I didn’t expect that. He talked about her laugh and her stubbornness and the way she kept all of his school drawings in a folder in her closet long past any reasonable point. He cried. I cried. It was real.
Afterward, at the reception at the house, Aunt Carol cornered me near the dining room buffet.
Carol is my mother’s older sister. She’s seventy-one and she lives about two hours away and she had been, over the years, a periodic presence — holidays, the occasional weekend visit, phone calls with my mother on Sunday afternoons. She meant well. She always had. But she had been watching our family from a distance for long enough that her understanding of our arrangement had significant gaps.
“Claire, honey,” she said, holding a small plate with some cheese and crackers she wasn’t eating. “What’s next for you? Are you thinking about getting your own place?”
The question landed oddly, but I didn’t know why yet. I said I hadn’t thought that far ahead, which was true.
“It might be good,” Carol said, in a careful voice. “A fresh start. I know Daniel has some ideas about the house.”
“The house goes to both of us equally. Mom had a will.”