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This is something that has to be done. Writing. Figuring out. Preparation for closure.

In Colorado an executor is called a personal representative. I have a lot to learn. I’m reluctant, but I’ll get over it, to even look at Florida.

I’m putting together a timeline. Dad died 10/30/14 and I was notified only after semi-politely bringing it up on 3/14/22. In between I sent letters and cards to both my parents and never received a reply. I also received one other communication from a long-lost brother on 10/31/14.

On 10/30/2014 12:32 PM, Name wrote:

My phone number is 567.277.6845



Channel Manager – Dealer Sales
Great Lakes Window

30499 Tracy Rd., Walbridge, OH 43465 | p: 419.662.3665    x3665 | f: 419-666-7643

There is not even a Hello or Hope You’re Well. It is from a work address. My reply was not so polite. The subject said Please call me.

I am not going to tell or retell the whole story now. The purpose is to write a letter: my resignation.

My mother behaved in 2011 with a head of steam. She was going to put my father in a care facility and not tell anyone. Then, free to look after herself, she would close-up the long unused, vacant but fully-furnished, and for sale house in North Carolina. It would be sold for far under its market value at the height of the Great Recession. My mother would sell or give everything to my brother and sister, and her sister, without even telling me.

Now, with the aid of hindsight and subsequent events, the motive, and the reason for the energy, is clear. There would be no more family. Everything would be about me–my mother–on her terms.

If you have ever spoken to my mother you might understand. It is not a conversation, it is not a request, or question, or interest–it is a notification. It is, this is what is happening and your role in it. Empathy and compassion are nonexistent. It is very much like the email above. It overflows with tension. You can almost hear the pulling on a cigarette and the clinking of ice in a cocktail.

And that is indeed the specter that hangs over all of it. If I can just have a drink I’ll relax.

But I digress . It is worth noting that there are some efforts. It is obviously very difficult for my mother. They are not communicative, compassionate, empathetic people.

They tend to grab and run. But I keep telling myself, I have plenty and I don’t care about the possessions and the money…

It is about expectations. I still tell myself frequently–my mother has never been to my house in my entire life. When I was 29 in 1988 I bought my first house.

This is procrastination with respect to another letter I have to write.

So I need to digest that my brother and mother were in cahoots in October, 2014 when my father died. By cahoots I mean mouthpiece; order follower; greed and only looking out for one’s own interests. It is an unusual relationship of roles. It confirms, and goes back to, the events of 2011 and before.

My old keyboard. I have to readjust. And write.

Remember–family problems? It all goes back to alcoholism.

I’m sorry, I need to write about me for a second, and then more. This is not about me. It is about solving a problem and writing a letter.

My favorite subject is customer satisfaction. It depends a lot on expectations.

I expected (in approximate order):

That my parents and siblings would care about everyone’s health and well-being. That centers on caring for my sick father and learning about the genetic health risks we all possess.

I expected that my Colorado home–my home anywhere–would be a


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