Only three weeks had passed since I laid my mother to rest, and my brother had already summoned an appraiser for the house.
In the yard of the family home in Sighet, the autumn apples fell one after another, thudding softly onto the ground. The building itselfa modest tworoom house from the 1970s with a wooden verandaseemed to have shrunk ever since we were children. Yet the nearly 1,000squaremetre plot had suddenly become the most valuable bargaining chip between me and my brother, Mihai.
Andrea, lets be practical, he had said over the phone the day before. Youre in Cluj, Im in Bucharest. Neither of us can move here. Is it worth keeping this empty house? Better to sell it and split the proceeds.
His logic was cold, efficient, just as Mihai had always been. Selling appeared the rational choice. But how could you assign a price to the place where you learned to walk, planted your first tree, and where your parents spent their whole lives?
I sat at the kitchen table, its floralpatterned tablecloth faded by time, flipping through an old photo album. My father, who had been gone for five years, smiled beneath his shaggy mustache in a picture taken in the summer of 89. Beside him, Mom held a basket of plums and looked younger than I had ever seen her.
The phone buzzed. It was Mihai.
I talked to a realtor. He says we could ask 75,000 for the house and land. Thats a good figure, Andrea. Think what you could do with half of that.
I need to think, Mihai. This isnt an easy decision for me.
Whats there to think about? The house sits empty, its deteriorating. Neither of us has time to look after it. Leaving it like this would be irresponsible.
He was right. My life was in Clujmy husband, our children, my corporate job. I only came to Sighet two or three times a year, and in recent years only to tend to Mom when illness confined her to bed. Mihai visited even less; his bustling life as a successful lawyer in Bucharest always took priority.
That evening I lit the terracotta stove and began sorting through Moms belongings: her simple clothes neatly folded in the wardrobe, the porcelain tea set reserved for special occasions, a stack of handwritten recipes tucked inside a biscuit tin. Each item seemed to breathe her presence.
Among the things, I uncovered a yellowed envelope. Inside lay the property 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 and your fathers entire life. Its where we raised you, where we laughed and wept, where we 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 just a burden. But before you make any decision, I want you to remember
The letter stopped abruptly, as if Mom ran out of words or time to finish it.
The next morning Mihai arrived in his new car, parking it in front of the gate. From the doorway I watched him, feeling how out of place he looked in this setting. His expensive suit clashed with the modest courtyard where we had once run barefoot as kids.
I brought the contract for the appraiser, he said, skipping the usual greeting.
I handed him the letter I had found the night before, saying nothing. He read it silently; his expression shifted ever so slightly.
Its unfinished, he remarked.
Yes, just like our conversation about what to do with the house.
I stepped outside, among the fallen apples and the vegetable beds Mom had tended until her last month. The small orchard behind the house, where Dad had built a swing for us, was now overgrown.
Do you remember when we argued on that swing and both fell, breaking my arm? I asked.
A brief smile crossed his face. And Dad rushed 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 encounter with Dads homemade țuică, winter evenings when the four of us huddled around the stove.
Only those who have lived through such moments in Romanian families truly grasp the emotional weight a parental home carries and the pain of parting with it, especially when siblings cannot find 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 out.
I stared at him, surprised. But you said it would be irresponsible to keep it.
Yes, if we let it decay. But what if we renovate it? It could become a place where we bring our children for vacations, a spot to gather for holidaysa home that stays in the family.
His suggestion caught me off guard. The pragmatic Mihai proposing to preserve the house out of sentiment?
It would cost money, time, effort, I pointed out.
We both have resources. Maybe its time to invest a little in our roots, not only in our childrens futures.
In the months that followed we began restoring the family home. We kept the original structure, the terracotta stove, the wooden beam where Dad used to measure our height year after year. We upgraded the kitchen and bathroom, installed central heating, and turned 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 a pine tree in the front yard just as we did as kids and baked cozonac 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 toward the kitchen window, where we could see our families preparing the Christmas feast, and at our kids building a snowman exactly where we had built one thirty years earlier.
Isnt this one of the greatest losses of modern Romanian society? Parental homes, once the nucleus of extended families that gathered generations around one table, are now 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 cant be measured in money.
It’s only been three weeks since we buried Mum, and my brother is already calling in the estate agent for the house.
