NOTE- This is the last tirade about my dad and his will and his second wife. I thought about not writing it, but it has to be purged and I want other people to be outraged as well. I hate it when I’m alone in that. So, there is lots of swearing by me. If I can figure out how, I’m going to close comments. I know you all love me and support me and I love you all for it!! I won’t make you say it this time. You’re welcome, da da da dadum……I love The Rock singing.


I had just tucked myself in to bed last night, adjusted the curtain so I could feel the breeze and an errant raindrop or two when my phone silently flashed my younger sister’s name at me.

Now, I’ve been taken to task twice in the last five years for silencing my phone at night. First when my niece passed away and then when my adopted dad died. So, I answered. The thunderstorm would have to wait.

We all received an email from my brother who is taking care of probate matters for dad that basically said, we can see the finish line, if there’s anything you want out of the house you need to contact the bitch and see if she’ll give it to you. Sooner is better. The b-word is my addition. My brother doesn’t swear. This is what my sister was calling me about.

The weekend of dad’s funeral, when we realized he’d fucked us all one last time, well and truly, we made a list of 20-30 things we wanted out of the house. Stuff that belonged to mom and dad. Stuff we never thought about having to ask for, much of which has already been sold off on FaceBook and other community selling forums. Gleefully, I might add, by the bitch’s blood sucking daughter. Last night my sister asked me if I really still wanted anything from the house.

“Yes! I fucking want what should be mine!”

So, I’ve learned that I am sentimental. Heavy on the MENTAL. It is a hard, grinding ache inside me that the bitch sits in my parent’s house sorting through their things, selling off what she doesn’t care about and what will bring her quick cash.

Grandfather Clock

Janome sewing machines

Mom’s hand-made quilts and quilt tops

artwork purchased in Korea and the Philippines

Book collections

Rock Collections

Mom’s Piano

Indoor Plants that my parents have grown longer than their children

Just a partial list of what they have/have tried to sell.

In the past 6-8 weeks I’ve been busy. I’ve managed to put my dad and his bitch of a second wife, out of my mind. I’ve focused elsewhere. It all came barreling back last night and the homicidal anger, the injustice, the sadness were severe and overwhelming. It was a long and restless night.

I was caught by something my sister said. Originally she had wanted my dad’s collection of slide photographs. There must be six big boxes filled with tray after tray after tray of pictures taken from when mom and dad were in college on until he died last november. Last night as I read her the list all of us had contributed to the weekend of the funeral, she said she no longer wanted anything. Nothing. She just wanted this all to be over. I asked about the pictures, saying I’d take them if she didn’t and she asked me “why?”. What do we get from remembering? He was never a father to any of us, never had time for us, could only express our value to him in terms of how hard we worked for him. We were worth nothing to him, orphans that he put to work on his tree farm. Kids no one else wanted and he had a use for. Why do we want to remember that?

Her words hacked their way through me, leaving me feeling weak and tired. After we disconnected, I lay in bed listening to the thunder, seeing the flashes of lightning. In my head I had this picture of myself, standing in front of a wrecked house, its insides strewn about me. I was muddy and tired, my arms full of things from our home, I couldn’t carry anything else but there was so much still there, all these things that mom and dad had loved. I looked up to see if anyone else could help carry I realized that all of my siblings were walking away. They weren’t even looking back.


An actual photograph of the aftermath of a flood in the town I grew up in. This isn’t my house, we weren’t hit by the water. We lived too far out in the boondocks. This is what I see when I thin of my parent’s home now.


They looked so relaxed, happy even. I opened my mouth to yell at them and heard my mom’s voice.

“It’s just stuff.”


When I woke up this morning it was the first thought in my brain. It’s just stuff.

I have enough stuff. I have an apartment and a storage unit full of stuff. I don’t need more stuff.

I have an inkling why I struggle to let go of familiar stuff.

I’ve decided to make a trade, for my own peace of heart and mind.  She can keep all that stuff and I can walk away. No longer weighed down by a legacy of sadness and anger, but looking forward to times spent with the only people who understand what my life really was. Looking forward to meeting Michael and learning about a woman who probably really hated the 60’s, in retrospect. Looking forward to meeting Jeff and the girls, hearing all about the man they dearly love and miss, in spite of his weaknesses.