The courtroom door felt heavier than I expected. I’d filed against my own sister – the one who’d given up her thirties to bathe our mother, change her adult diapers, crush her pain meds into applesauce. All while I sent Christmas cards from my perfect suburban life.
When the judge reviewed Dena’s documentation – the years of medical logs, the photos of Mom’s pressure ulcers she’d treated, the receipts for medications insurance wouldn’t cover – my case evaporated. The will was valid. The house was hers.
But it was the notebook that destroyed me. In the backseat of my minivan, I finally read Dena’s caregiver journal. Page after page of vitals and meal logs, yes – but also: “Mom smiled today when I read her old letters from Dad.” “She called me by her sister’s name and cried when I corrected her.” “The social worker asked if there’s other family who can relieve me. Didn’t have the heart to tell her…”
I showed up at the house with the notebook and a six-pack of the cheap beer we’d snuck as teens. Dena didn’t ask why I was crying. She just popped two caps off and said, “Page 147 is particularly pathetic – that’s when the hot water heater broke.”
We’re converting the garage into a respite care room now. Sometimes late at night, I hear Dena murmuring to Mom’s photo like she’s still here. Last week, I started joining her. We don’t talk about the will anymore. We talk to Mom – about the grandkids she never really knew, about how Dena still makes her famous terrible meatloaf, about how sorry I am.
The legal term is “adverse possession.” But what Dena taught me is that love isn’t divided like property – it multiplies when shared.
