The inheritance
by user8851547 surname8851547 @permalink8851547
- 216
- 5
- 3
Dear Courtney,
Here is my 3 act plan. I am writing the essay slowly and will add as I go. But as you can see, Act 3 is not a resolution, it poses another plot point... will I go to the land and titles office while in Colombia? I don't know! How would you suggest I deal with this uncertainty in the essay?
Dear Courtney, I think your idea of using sections of the documents is great, and I will use it in the 2nd and 3rd sections. In the meantime, here's ACT 1.
I'd love to read your feedback.
THE INHERITANCE
ACT 1
Someone once said, “if you are not at the table, you are on the menu”.
Mum’s passing was beautiful. Can I say that and not draw ire? She spent the last weeks of her life being doted on, round-the-clock, by her children.
Before leaving for work each morning Beatriz fluttered in the kitchen busily concocting the day’s potion that would prolong Mum’s life. Chicken broth, green vegetable puree, porridge infused with superfood extracts.
Mum died wrapped in her dignity. Since she had decided to stop eating and talking six weeks prior, she waved her finger in unmistakable dismissal of the bowl of food making its way into her room. She met our persistent requests, “just one spoonful”, by covering her mouth with the blanket, her eyes locked on ours, her gaze asserting, “I am still your mother.” At times she pretended to take a sip of whatever was on offer, only to spit it out as the feeder left the room, having been duped into a false sense of accomplishment. She pretended to drink water whilst covering the bottle spout with her finger. All the while locking eyes with whomever was witness to her charade as if to remind us, “I always have the last say on matters pertaining to me.” Mum was the master of self-respect.
Aurora agonised over what to do with Mum’s untouched food. Throw it in the bin, I suggested, not without a tinge of disparagement for Bety’s efforts. I was still reeling from her most recent derision of me after she had illustrated to Javier’s partner, Belinda, how blunt Mum could be. She was recounting the time Carlitos had been misdiagnosed with cancer. Bety quipped about how, upon hearing the bad news, Mum had greeted her 3rd child with “a little bird told me you don’t have long to live.”
The entire episode was news to me. In disbelief I complained, “you knew my brother had cancer and didn’t care to tell me?” Bety dismissed me, “You have nothing to be annoyed about; it turned out to be a misdiagnosis.”
“That’s not the point”, I insisted. “As far as you knew, our brother was sick. You told Mum but didn’t tell me!?”
“Francisco told her”, she quickly engineered to get out of the awkward spot she found herself in, that of being caught in a transgression. But just as quickly she returned to her posturing. “And in any case, your reaction is wrong. It doesn’t matter because in the end Carlitos wasn’t sick.”
Back to Aurora’s food wastage dilemma, “Bin it? After Bety went to all that trouble? She’ll be hurt. Best I hide It”, she replied time and again choosing to avoid the immediate conflict. I would soon realise this was Aurora’s path to self-love. Rather than negotiating difficult situations with significant others, she acted behind their backs in spite of the damage this caused. It meant she had plagued her life with secrets stored away from those she had betrayed. Ignorance is bliss. At least until the stench of her wrongdoings led back to her.
She had flown all the way from Colombia to join the rest of us, Aussies by migration, hoping to arrive in time to give Mum one last hug good-bye. As it turned out, she had four weeks of hugs left. During our long walks between “Mum-caring shifts” Aurora and I shared intimate details of our complicated sibling relationships. Amongst the six of us there is a lifetime of wounds to complain about and an array of personalities to clash or collude with. But I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was an invisible wall around her. She seemed unreachable.
Eventually it would become clear that she had been watching herself so as not to be swept into a moment of sisterly vulnerability and reveal the unspeakable.
And so it was. Four weeks of Aurora hiding untouched food and skeletons; me avoiding Bety; Aurora avoiding Carlitos; Carlitos avoiding Javier and Aurora; Javier avoiding me and Carlitos; Bety avoiding me. And Francisco avoiding the whole thing with a well-timed family holiday in the Philippines.
In terms of sibling harmony, they were the happiest weeks, and the longest time I’d spent under the same roof with them in decades. We managed to put our animosity on hold and joined in the common goal of giving Mum all the love and vallenatos she could take in the time she had left. She became the most animated she’d ever be, lying in bed, swinging her arms in the air to the rhythm of her beloved songs. Javier wore a long wig and became Vanessa, who danced and brought the songs to life to everyone’s laughter. Aurora massaged Mum’s back and head. I recounted treasured childhood memories, she smiled and looked around in silence. Only once did she speak again. I told her I would sit and wait and wonder about her silence. Did she not have anything else to say?, I asked. “Usté es muy bonita”, were the last words Mum said to me. “You are very pretty.”
Mum ran out of life on the morning of Sunday the 8th of January 2023. Exactly one month short of her 84th birthday.
It began not long after she took her last breath, once her body had been taken away from her cherished Sydney home to be prepared for burial and her ears could not prick at the sound of our disagreements.
It started innocently enough, with a plea from Aurora. “Please, don’t make me sell the house in Colombia. Once I get my inheritance from the sale of Sydney, I will give each of you your part for Colombia ”. She sounded genuinely helpless.
“Don’t worry, Aurorita, I don’t want any money for the house in Colombia,” Bety said reassuringly. As if on cue – I have wondered… – Javier spoke to mandate that we all give Aurora our parts, “Nobody is going to take anything for the house in Colombia.”
My irritation at being dismissed ran deep. It had been unwittingly triggered during a road trip with Aurora a few days prior. Having only a limited number of safe topics to speak about, she suggested we recall our childhood nicknames. “Javier was ‘Yeye’, and ‘Yeye Gogo’.” We laughed. “And Bety was ‘Betunia’.” More laughs. “And you,” she added, “you were ‘Pancha’”. “Yeah, I didn’t like that,” I replied. Aurora carried on, “we called you ‘cientocho’, hahaha.” The nickname, meaning ‘one hundred and eight’, was reference to the number of main bones in the human body. She laughed some more as she recited their favourite childhood taunts at my sickly-looking body. ‘rosary beads’ for the way my protruding bones looked; ‘cutlery box’ for the noise I would make should I fall down the stairs. And ‘foetus’, just because.
“Those memories don’t bring me any joy,” I replied sombrely. “They make part of my childhood trauma. I was being mocked. Bullied.” Silence.
“And Carlitos, what did we use to call him?” Aurora asked.
It should come as no surprise then, that I met Javier’s assumption of my irrelevance in the matter of my inheritance with “Javier, you don’t get to tell me what I should do with my inheritance. The house in Colombia is Dad and Mum’s legacy for all of us. And much like you’re deciding what you’ll do with your part, I too get to decide what I’ll do with mine.”
I could feel Bety’s disapproving gaze burning my face. And after his initial shock at my defiance, Javier could not keep his mouth shut. He couldn’t help himself. He had to double down on his dictate unloading the full barrel load of guilt. “If Mum was here, she would tell us that this is what she wants.” Nothing like quoting your recently deceased mother, whom we are yet to bury, to push his point. That’s Javier. Smooth as sanding paper.
“We are all giving Aurora our parts”, he concluded. And with those simple words he changed the goal post. It was no longer about right or wrong. It wasn’t about Aurora’s warranted compassion for having stayed. It became about affirmation of my standing as an equal in the family circle. It was about respect.
3 comments
displayname6128515
Teacher PlusThis is incredibly well done-- bravo! If it were me, I would perhaps try to either incorporate some of the language from the documents themselves or mimic the form of the document to end the piece-- use the form to fit the content, if you will. This sounds like a magnificent project and I wish you every luck with it! Very well done.
displayname8851547
Dear Courtney, I think your idea of using sections of the documents is great, and I will use it in the 2nd and 3rd sections. In the meantime, here's ACT 1.
I'd love to read your feedback.
THE INHERITANCE
ACT 1
Someone once said, “if you are not at the table, you are on the menu”.
Mum’s passing was beautiful. Can I say that and not draw ire? She spent the last weeks of her life being doted on, round-the-clock, by her children.
Before leaving for work each morning Beatriz fluttered in the kitchen busily concocting the day’s potion that would prolong Mum’s life. Chicken broth, green vegetable puree, porridge infused with superfood extracts.
Mum died wrapped in her dignity. Since she had decided to stop eating and talking six weeks prior, she waved her finger in unmistakable dismissal of the bowl of food making its way into her room. She met our persistent requests, “just one spoonful”, by covering her mouth with the blanket, her eyes locked on ours, her gaze asserting, “I am still your mother.” At times she pretended to take a sip of whatever was on offer, only to spit it out as the feeder left the room, having been duped into a false sense of accomplishment. She pretended to drink water whilst covering the bottle spout with her finger. All the while locking eyes with whomever was witness to her charade as if to remind us, “I always have the last say on matters pertaining to me.” Mum was the master of self-respect.
Aurora agonised over what to do with Mum’s untouched food. Throw it in the bin, I suggested, not without a tinge of disparagement for Bety’s efforts. I was still reeling from her most recent derision of me after she had illustrated to Javier’s partner, Belinda, how blunt Mum could be. She was recounting the time Carlitos had been misdiagnosed with cancer. Bety quipped about how, upon hearing the bad news, Mum had greeted her 3rd child with “a little bird told me you don’t have long to live.”
The entire episode was news to me. In disbelief I complained, “you knew my brother had cancer and didn’t care to tell me?” Bety dismissed me, “You have nothing to be annoyed about; it turned out to be a misdiagnosis.”
“That’s not the point”, I insisted. “As far as you knew, our brother was sick. You told Mum but didn’t tell me!?”
“Francisco told her”, she quickly engineered to get out of the awkward spot she found herself in, that of being caught in a transgression. But just as quickly she returned to her posturing. “And in any case, your reaction is wrong. It doesn’t matter because in the end Carlitos wasn’t sick.”
Back to Aurora’s food wastage dilemma, “Bin it? After Bety went to all that trouble? She’ll be hurt. Best I hide It”, she replied time and again choosing to avoid the immediate conflict. I would soon realise this was Aurora’s path to self-love. Rather than negotiating difficult situations with significant others, she acted behind their backs in spite of the damage this caused. It meant she had plagued her life with secrets stored away from those she had betrayed. Ignorance is bliss. At least until the stench of her wrongdoings led back to her.
She had flown all the way from Colombia to join the rest of us, Aussies by migration, hoping to arrive in time to give Mum one last hug good-bye. As it turned out, she had four weeks of hugs left. During our long walks between “Mum-caring shifts” Aurora and I shared intimate details of our complicated sibling relationships. Amongst the six of us there is a lifetime of wounds to complain about and an array of personalities to clash or collude with. But I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was an invisible wall around her. She seemed unreachable.
Eventually it would become clear that she had been watching herself so as not to be swept into a moment of sisterly vulnerability and reveal the unspeakable.
And so it was. Four weeks of Aurora hiding untouched food and skeletons; me avoiding Bety; Aurora avoiding Carlitos; Carlitos avoiding Javier and Aurora; Javier avoiding me and Carlitos; Bety avoiding me. And Francisco avoiding the whole thing with a well-timed family holiday in the Philippines.
In terms of sibling harmony, they were the happiest weeks, and the longest time I’d spent under the same roof with them in decades. We managed to put our animosity on hold and joined in the common goal of giving Mum all the love and vallenatos she could take in the time she had left. She became the most animated she’d ever be, lying in bed, swinging her arms in the air to the rhythm of her beloved songs. Javier wore a long wig and became Vanessa, who danced and brought the songs to life to everyone’s laughter. Aurora massaged Mum’s back and head. I recounted treasured childhood memories, she smiled and looked around in silence. Only once did she speak again. I told her I would sit and wait and wonder about her silence. Did she not have anything else to say?, I asked. “Usté es muy bonita”, were the last words Mum said to me. “You are very pretty.”
Mum ran out of life on the morning of Sunday the 8th of January 2023. Exactly one month short of her 84th birthday.
It began not long after she took her last breath, once her body had been taken away from her cherished Sydney home to be prepared for burial and her ears could not prick at the sound of our disagreements.
It started innocently enough, with a plea from Aurora. “Please, don’t make me sell the house in Colombia. Once I get my inheritance from the sale of Sydney, I will give each of you your part for Colombia ”. She sounded genuinely helpless.
“Don’t worry, Aurorita, I don’t want any money for the house in Colombia,” Bety said reassuringly. As if on cue – I have wondered… – Javier spoke to mandate that we all give Aurora our parts, “Nobody is going to take anything for the house in Colombia.”
My irritation at being dismissed ran deep. It had been unwittingly triggered during a road trip with Aurora a few days prior. Having only a limited number of safe topics to speak about, she suggested we recall our childhood nicknames. “Javier was ‘Yeye’, and ‘Yeye Gogo’.” We laughed. “And Bety was ‘Betunia’.” More laughs. “And you,” she added, “you were ‘Pancha’”. “Yeah, I didn’t like that,” I replied. Aurora carried on, “we called you ‘cientocho’, hahaha.” The nickname, meaning ‘one hundred and eight’, was reference to the number of main bones in the human body. She laughed some more as she recited their favourite childhood taunts at my sickly-looking body. ‘rosary beads’ for the way my protruding bones looked; ‘cutlery box’ for the noise I would make should I fall down the stairs. And ‘foetus’, just because.
“Those memories don’t bring me any joy,” I replied sombrely. “They make part of my childhood trauma. I was being mocked. Bullied.” Silence.
“And Carlitos, what did we use to call him?” Aurora asked.
It should come as no surprise then, that I met Javier’s assumption of my irrelevance in the matter of my inheritance with “Javier, you don’t get to tell me what I should do with my inheritance. The house in Colombia is Dad and Mum’s legacy for all of us. And much like you’re deciding what you’ll do with your part, I too get to decide what I’ll do with mine.”
I could feel Bety’s disapproving gaze burning my face. And after his initial shock at my defiance, Javier could not keep his mouth shut. He couldn’t help himself. He had to double down on his dictate unloading the full barrel load of guilt. “If Mum was here, she would tell us that this is what she wants.” Nothing like quoting your recently deceased mother, whom we are yet to bury, to push his point. That’s Javier. Smooth as sanding paper.
“We are all giving Aurora our parts”, he concluded. And with those simple words he changed the goal post. It was no longer about right or wrong. It wasn’t about Aurora’s warranted compassion for having stayed. It became about affirmation of my standing as an equal in the family circle. It was about respect.
displayname8851547
Dear Courtney, hoping you'll get a chance to read my Act 1 above and give me some feedback. This would mean a lot to me. Cheers
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