My Mother Left Me Her House, but Only If I Let My Brother Move in – on Christmas Morning, Everything Finally Made Sense

She squeezed my hand.

There it was.

“What condition?”

“Quentin has to live there with you,” she said. “For at least three years.”

My hand jerked out of hers.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Mom, I have children.”

“He needs a home,” she said. “He needs you. If I leave it to him, he’ll sell it.

If I leave it to both of you, you’ll fight. This way, he has to stay put.”

“This house was supposed to be security for my kids,” I snapped. “You’re asking me to invite chaos inside.”

Her face crumpled.

“He is not chaos. He is my son.”

“He’s an addict,” I said. “And you always cover for him.”

She flinched like I’d slapped her.

We didn’t talk about it again for a while.

Then, on one of her last clear days, she grabbed my hand.

“Let him try to make it right,” she whispered.

“Please.”

I stared at her.

My dying mother begging me to give my brother another chance.

I swallowed my anger.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

She closed her eyes, relieved.

After she died, the world turned gray for a bit.

Funeral. Food.

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