Only three weeks had passed since I buried my mother, and my brother had already called a house appraiser. In the courtyard of our parents home in Sighet, autumn apples fell one by one, thudding against the ground with a muffled sound. The housea modest 70s tworoom building with a wooden verandaseemed smaller than it had when we were children. Yet the almost1,000squaremetre plot had suddenly become the most valuable bargaining chip between my brother Mihai and me.
Andréa, lets be practical, he had said on the phone the day before. Youre in Cluj, Im in Bucharest. Neither of us can move here. Is it worth keeping this house empty? Better to sell it and split the proceeds.
His logic was cold, efficient, just as Mihai had always been. Selling appeared to be the rational choice. But how could one put a price on the place where you learned to walk, where you planted your first tree, where your parents spent an entire lifetime?
I sat at the kitchen table, its oncefloral tablecloth faded by time, flipping through an old photo album. My father, who had been gone for five years, smiled beneath his bushy mustache in a summer89 picture. Beside him, Mom held a basket of plums and looked younger than I had ever been.
The phone buzzedMihai.
I talked to a realtor. He says we could ask 75,000 for the house and land. Thats a good sum, Andréa. Imagine what you could do with half of that.
I need to think about it, Mihai. Its not an easy decision for me.
Whats there to think about? The house sits empty, its deteriorating. Neither of us has time to tend it. It would be irresponsible to let it stay that way.
He was right. My life was in Cluj with my husband, children, and corporate job. I visited Sighet only two or three times a year, and in recent years only to care for Mom when illness confined her to bed. Mihai came even less often; his hectic life as a successful lawyer in Bucharest always took precedence.
That evening I lit the terracotta stove and began sorting Moms belongings: her simple clothes neatly folded in the closet, the porcelain tea set saved for special occasions, the stack of handwritten recipes tucked in a biscuit tin. Each item seemed to breathe her presence.
Among the things, I uncovered a yellowed envelope containing the house deed and an unfinished letter addressed to My Children. Moms neat, careful handwriting filled a page:
Dear children, when you read this, I will probably no longer be here. This house has been my whole life and your fathers. It is where we raised you, laughed, cried, and grew old. It was never large or luxurious, but it was full of love. I know your lives are far away now and this house may seem a burden. Before you make any decision, remember
The letter stopped abruptly, as if Mom could not find the right words or time ran out.
The next morning Mihai arrived in his new car, parking it in front of the gate. From the doorway I watched him, looking out of place in this setting. His expensive suit clashed with the modest yard where we had once run barefoot as kids.
Ive brought the evaluators contract, he said, skipping the usual greetings. I handed him the letter I had found the night before without a word. He read it in silence, his expression shifting subtly.
Its unfinished, he observed.
Yes, just like our conversation about the house.
I stepped into the courtyard, among the fallen apples and the vegetable rows Mom had tended until her final month. The small orchard behind the house, where Dad had built a swing for us, had grown wild.
Do you remember how we fought over the swing and both fell, breaking my arm? I asked.
A brief smile crossed his face. And Dad took us to the hospital on his bike, you in his arms and me pedaling behind, crying louder than you.
Suddenly we were both laughing, recalling childhood episodes we had long forgotten: the surprise party for Dads 50th birthday when the cake slid off the table, Mihais first drunken experience with Dads homemade brandy, winter evenings when the four of us huddled around the stove. Only those who have lived such moments in Romanian families truly grasp the emotional weight a parental home carries and the pain of parting from it, especially when siblings cant reach a common ground.
After a few hours of reminiscence, Mihai stood and looked around as if seeing the house for the first time.
What if we dont sell it? he blurted.
I stared, surprised. But you said it was irresponsible to keep it.
Yes, if we let it decay. But what if we renovate? It could become a place to bring our kids for vacations, a spot to gather for holidaysa home that stays in the family.
His suggestion caught me offguard. The pragmatic Mihai proposing to keep the house out of sentiment?
It would cost money, time, effort, I noted.
We both have resources. Maybe its time to invest a little in our roots, not just in our childrens futures.
In the months that followed we began restoring the parental home. We preserved the original structure, the terracotta stove, and the wooden beam Dad used to measure our height each year. We upgraded the kitchen and bathroom, installed central heating, and converted the attic into two childrens rooms.
By Christmas we were all together thereMihai with his wife and son, me with my husband and daughters. We decorated the frontyard fir as we had done as kids and baked cozonaci using Moms recipe. While the children played in the snow, Mihai and I sat on the porch, watching the familiar landscape of the town.
Do you think we made the right choice? he asked. I glanced at the kitchen window, where silhouettes of our families were preparing the holiday feast, and at our kids building a snowman exactly where we had made one thirty years earlier.
Isnt this one of the greatest losses of modern Romanian society? Parental homes, once the nucleus of extended families gathering generations around one table, now reduced to mere realestate assets traded without regard for their emotional value.
I think Mom would have finished her letter by saying that the true inheritance isnt the houses price, but the memories and bonds we create here.
Mihai nodded, raising his mug of mulled wine. To the family home, he said. And to all who understand that some things cannot be measured in money.
It’s been just three weeks since we laid Mum to rest, and my brother has already called in the estate agent for the house.
