Chapter 15 - MY EIGHTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY

The cake was chocolate.

No green icing.

No family symbolism. Just chocolate. Luke brought.

His wife brought flowers. I said:

“Put them in vase. Not my mouth.” Everyone froze.

Then Luke burst out laughing because he knew enough.

I laughed too.

Maybe dark humor belonged to me now.

Then: “Too much?” he asked. “No.” Then candles. Eighty-eight.

Too many, so two number candles. Good.

Then: “Want sing?” “Yes.”

They sang badly.

Then I blew. No wish. Then dinner.

One great-niece asked:

“Aunt Monica, were you ever married?” “No.”

Then: “Did you want?” Sometimes.

Then: “Why didn’t?”

Because one relationship ended over marriage difference; then life.

I said: “Because my life went another way.” Enough.

Then: “Were you lonely?” Sometimes. Then: “Happy?” Often. Good.

Then she said: “Mom says you’re rich.” Luke choked. I laughed. “Comfortable.”

Then: “Can I have money?” Everyone froze.

Then I laughed harder.

“Ask your parents.”

No family trauma lecture. Child joke.

Then after dinner, Luke asked:

“Did that bother you?” “No.”

Then: “Are you sure?” “Yes.”

Money could be ordinary too. Then estate.

I had already set.

Then I decided to give some gifts now.

Education accounts for young relatives.

Equal-ish by generation? No need exact.

Then I wrote:

“This is for education or early adulthood. No repayment.”

Then: “Do I get say what major?” No.

Then: “What if they waste?” Maybe.

Then: “Will I be mad?” Probably.

Still their path within account terms.

Then I used independent administrator.

No personal leverage.

Then one niece dropped college.

Used remaining allowed funds for vocational program. Good.

Then one nephew wanted art school. Family criticized.

I said nothing until asked.

Then: “What do you think?”

“If you understand debt and want art, choose.” Good.

Then he went.

Then maybe failed. Then changed. Fine.

Then I gave money to library. No name.

Then used money for home care as I aged. No guilt.

Then: “Is this what Dad wanted?” Stop. Not question.

Then: “Do I want?” Yes. Then done.

Then Kathleen’s old friend group invited me to memorial. I declined. Already grieved.

Then: “Do you feel bad?” No.

Then one year later, Ross Coastal renamed building after Kathleen? Not my concern.

Then I heard they established Kathleen Ross ethics fellowship.

Would she hate? Maybe. Not ask.

Then I laughed because everyone gets named after death whether they want.

Then I remembered her saying:

“Don’t make me custodian.”

I was not.

Then physical decline. Hearing. Balance.

Then home health.

I interviewed caregivers. One said:

“I can just take over bills for you.” No.

Another: “We can review what you want help with.” Yes. Then hired.

Then she occasionally said: “You don’t need to sign every receipt.” I smiled.

“Yes, I do.” Then: “Fair.”

Then one day she brought a form.

“Want me to read first?” “Yes.” Good.

Then I signed.

Then: “You really like paperwork.” “No.” We laughed.

Then I found one last box from Mom. Not secret. Christmas ornaments. Why still? I opened.

One ornament with Austin’s name. One Monica.

One from Dad.

I hung none.

Then decided give Austin ornament to Luke. He cried.

Then: “Do you want Monica one?” I kept. Then: “Dad?” Luke wanted. Fine.

Then mom? I kept her simple gold star. No hierarchy.

Then: “Are ornaments dangerous assets?” Luke joked.

“Depends on appraisal.” We laughed.

Then I realized humor had replaced fear in family around objects. Good.

Then I had minor stroke. Recovered mostly.

Speech slurred for weeks. I hated.

Then medical team asked choices.

I could answer.

Then Luke listened.

Did not interrupt.

Then: “Anything you want me to ask doctor?” “Yes.” Good. Then recovery.

Then I moved to assisted living.

My choice before forced. I toured.

Picked one near ocean.

Then staff asked: “Family?”

Luke listed as contact. Then: “Children?” No. Then: “Spouse?” No.

Then: “Any safety concerns?” No. There. That word. No danger.

Then first night, I cried.

Not because bad. Change.

Then next morning breakfast awful. I complained. Normal.

Then made friend named Dorothy.

She cheated at cards. I caught.

Then: “Family taught me fraud.” She laughed. No context. Then birthdays. Eighty-nine. Ninety.

Then one day Dorothy asked:

“Why do you hate family meetings?”

I said: “Long story.” Then: “Tell?” “No.” She shrugged. “Okay.” Perfect.

Then at ninety, I realized almost every person connected to the original secret was dead.

Yet I was not lonely as last witness.

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I was simply old.

And being old was allowed to be the main thing happening to me.