My mother died peacefully and my daughter and I were there until the very end. We said goodbyes and left her to sleep. She didn’t wake up the next morning. I knew even before I got the phone call. The planning of the funeral was greatly assisted by the life celebrants at the Funeral Home. However, the beautiful ceremony opened to family and friends was underscored by much behind-the-scenes conflict amongst the siblings.
From the sign-in book to the seating arrangements to the order of the eulogies, everything was fought over. It was exhausting. The final straw was the design of the headstone. Each word in the bilingual stone was wordsmith ad nauseum. Mom’s portrait was iterated, upscaled with AI and photoshopped again and again. Even the placement of religious symbols was argued over. It got to a point where one of my sisters said she didn’t like it and resented my contribution as she dictated that I should have no say because I was the youngest sibling. At that point, as the stress level in every other aspect of my regular life was already in redline, I snapped. Like a drunk man who blurts out an unfortunate but often candid comment, I said to my sister that if it wasn’t for her blind obedience to authority who gave her a powerful and unnecessary drug for mother’s underlying yet unmanifested condition, my mother would not have so quickly succumb to a bout of pneumonia and COVID. It was she who killed my mother.
It’s likely impossible to recover from a comment like this. And it’s been a long time since that moment and things haven’t progressed an inch. There are seven siblings. The biggest gulf is between me and this sister. I’m not angry. I know that mom wouldn’t want this. So, I do my best to host Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Year gatherings for whoever wants to come. But never once have they been attended fully by everyone like when mom was alive.
I am the youngest of seven and the bridge between our sibling generation and our children who call me uncle. Wouldn’t you want me to eulogize great stories to the next generation?
My brother asked me why I am doing them so frequently and maybe I should just pause these get togethers. I looked at him sympathetically and told him, “I enjoy hosting them but won’t send out individual invitations. I welcome whoever shows up: siblings, nephews & nieces, significant others and friends. I am the youngest of seven and the bridge between our sibling generation and our children who call me uncle.” I paused and thought whether I should express my next thought or whether it would be too morbid. But I continued anyway, “Brother, I am the youngest. I am likely the one to bury all of you. Wouldn’t you want me to eulogize great stories to the next generation?” He never said anything in return.
My daughter asked me if I was going to carry a grudge with her aunt. I said, “I’m not carrying anything. Your aunt decided to exit the family.” My ‘breaking up’ with her was a response. It’s not because I am petty or righteous and need to keep her aunt away so I can heal. It’s none of those. I’m getting older and if not now, then when do I decide I deserve better? I grew up as the youngest and for most of my life living in the shadows of my siblings. My opinion was typecast as a child’s—even as an adult. I’ve since become quite successful in many aspects of my life. I’ve had the good fortunate to travel and work in many countries and have a network all over the world. Arguably, I have more experience than other siblings in many areas. I’m very fortunate and I recognize that. I don’t need to bring this back home to ask for recognition or vindication. I do all of it because I wanted to do those things for myself.
At the death of both my parents, I realized that succession is simply a rite of passage as I watch my own daughter grow up before me. I want to enjoy my days and will do everything to remove things that don’t move me forward. I silently reflected and then said to my daughter, “I don’t carry a grudge. I carry a torch. Which you will carry one day.”
