Page 15 of Mountain Grump
I have a home that’smine. That no one can take from me.
I’m fine.
I take another breath and slowly lower my arms.
But Uncle Jack is gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. And I breathe.
Two weeks ago today, a man knocked on my apartment door. When I answered, he handed me an envelope without a word, then turned around and left.
The envelope had my name handwritten on the front, in neat block letters.
I shut the door. I opened the letter. I read it. And then I sat on the floor. Right there. In the entryway to my tiny studio apartment. I sat on the floor, and I cried.
And I read it again.
Uncle Jack is dead.
The letter explained it all. But…
I lift my arms and breathe again.
He had a terminal illness.
But he never told me.
Never told anyone.
Breathe.
He knew it was over. Said he wanted to control his own destiny. So…
Breathe, Tilda. Just breathe.
He chose death with dignity. Physician-assisted dying.
He did it his way.
I drop my arms and open my eyes.
Uncle Jack,Great-Uncle Jack, brother of my mother’s mother, arranged his death.
And he arranged my life.
The house is in my name.
The land is in my name.
The check for twenty thousand dollars was in my name.
And the plane ticket… the driver…
He had it all planned.
Two weeks ago, I got the letter. The one in Uncle Jack’s handwriting, telling me that he loved me. That I was his hope and his joy. That he was sorry we didn’t spend more time together. That he was sorry he didn’t visit more often. That he was sorry he couldn’t tell me his plan.
The letter that had a single house key taped to the paper.
