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 our parents home in Sighet, autumn apples dropped one by one, thudding against the soil with a muffled sound. The buildinga tworoom, woodenveranda house from the 1970sseemed to have shrunk ever since we were children. Yet the nearly 1,000squaremetre plot had suddenly become the most valuable bargaining chip between my brother Mihai and me.
Andrea, lets be practical, he had said on the phone the day before. Youre in Cluj, Im in Bucharest. Neither of us can move here. Does it make sense to keep this house empty? Wed be better off selling it and splitting the proceeds.
His logic was cold, efficient, just as Mihai had always been. Selling appeared the rational choice. But how could one price the place where you learned to walk, planted your first tree, and where your parents spent an entire lifetime?
I was seated at the kitchen table, its cloth apron faded with age, flipping through an old photo album. My father, who had been gone for five years, smiled beneath his shaggy moustache in a picture from the summer of 89. Beside him, my mother held a basket of plums, looking younger than I had ever seen her.
The phone buzzedMihai.
Ive spoken with a realtor. They say we could ask 75,000 for the house and land. Thats a solid sum, Andrea. Imagine what you could do with half of that.
I need to think about it, Mihai. It isnt an easy decision for me.
Whats there to think about? The house sits empty, deteriorating. Neither of us has time to look after it. It would be irresponsible to let it go on like that.
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 tend to my mother when illness confined her to bed. Mihai came even less often; his bustling life as a successful lawyer in Bucharest always took precedence.
That evening I lit the terracotta stove and began sorting my mothers belongingsher simple clothes neatly folded in the wardrobe, the porcelain tea set reserved for special occasions, a stack of handwritten recipes kept in a biscuit tin. Each item seemed to exhale a fragment of her presence.
Among the things, I uncovered a yellowed envelope. Inside lay the property deed and an unfinished letter addressed to My children. My mothers tidy handwriting filled a page:
Dear children, when you read this I will probably be gone. This house has been my life and your fathers. Here we raised you, laughed, wept, and grew old. It was never grand or luxurious, but it was full of love. I know your lives are far away now and this house may feel like a burden. Before you decide anything, remember
The letter stopped abruptly, as if she 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. I watched him from the doorway, noticing how out of place he looked here. His expensive suit clashed with the modest courtyard where we had once run barefoot.
I brought the evaluators contract, he announced instead of a greeting.
I handed him the letter Id found the night before without a word. He read it in silence; his expression shifted subtly.
Its unfinished, he remarked.
Just like our conversation about the house.
I stepped out into the yard, among the fallen apples and the vegetable rows my mother had tended until her last month. The small orchard behind the house, where dad had built a swing for us, now lay overgrown.
Do you remember when we argued on 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, me pedalling behind, crying louder than you.
We both burst into laughter, recalling childhood episodes wed long forgottenthe surprise party for dads 50th birthday when the cake slipped off the table, Mihihs first drunken toast with dads homemade brandy, winter evenings huddled around the stove.
Only those who have lived such moments in Romanian families truly grasp the emotional weight a parental home carries and how painful it is to let it go, especially when siblings cannot 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 didnt sell it? he said suddenly.
I stared, surprised. But you said it would be irresponsible to keep it.
Yes, if we let it decay. But what if we restore it? It could become a place where we bring our children for holidays, meet for celebrationsa home that stays in the family.
His suggestion caught me off guard. 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 renovating the parental house. We preserved the original structure, the terracotta stove, and the wooden beam where dad used to measure our height each year. We modernized the kitchen and bathroom, installed central heating, and converted the attic into two childrens rooms.
At Christmas we all gathered thereMihai with his wife and son, me with my husband and daughters. We decorated the frontyard tree just as we did as kids and baked cozonac using Moms recipe.
While the kids 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 looked toward the kitchen window, where silhouettes of our families prepared the holiday feast, and at our children building a snowman exactly where we had built one thirty years earlier.
Isnt this one of the greatest losses of modern Romanian society? Ancestral homes, once the nucleus of extended families gathering around one table, now reduced to mere realestate assets traded without regard for their emotional value.
Im sure Mom would have finished her letter by saying that the true inheritance isnt the houses price tag, but the memories and bonds we forge within its walls, I said.
Mihai nodded, raising his mug of mulled wine. To the family home, he toasted, and to all who understand that some things cant be measured in money.
It’s been just three weeks since we laid Mum to rest, and my brother has already called the appraiser for the house.
