I am tired in a way that sleep cannot fix.
For a year now, I have carried the weight of my father’s estate on my shoulders. Not just the paperwork, not just the legal responsibilities, but the emotional burden of being the one who had to step in and handle everything.
When Dad died, I said yes to being Executor because I loved him. I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to make sure his affairs were handled properly and with dignity. I never imagined that one decision would consume so much of my life.
So very much. (Had I known that I could refuse the appointment, I most certainly would have.)
At sixty years old, I thought I would be spending my time focusing on my own future, my own happiness, my own retirement dreams. Instead, I have spent countless nights staring at spreadsheets, reading legal documents, answering emails, dealing with creditors, managing a house 1,200 miles away, and trying to navigate family relationships that often left me feeling completely alone.
No one tells you that being an Executor can break your heart.
No one tells you that grief doesn’t end with the funeral.
Sometimes grief becomes paperwork.
Sometimes grief becomes arguments.
Sometimes grief becomes resentment.
And sometimes grief becomes a burden so heavy that you start to wonder if you will ever put it down.
Living so far away made everything harder. Every problem felt impossible. Every decision required more of my money, another phone call, another email, another sacrifice. I was constantly trying to solve problems from a distance while everyone else seemed to have an opinion about what should be done.
The truth is that people are very generous with advice when they don’t have to carry the responsibility.
Everyone has suggestions.
Everyone has complaints.
Everyone has expectations.
But at the end of the day, I was the one signing the documents. I was the one making the difficult decisions. I was the one who would be held accountable if something went wrong.
And yet somehow, I often felt like the villain.
There were moments when I felt manipulated. Moments when guilt was used against me. Moments when I questioned whether anyone truly understood what I was carrying.
There was a point where I actually started to petition the court to release me as Executir and have a court appointed Adminstrator. I wish I had done that.
I spent so much time trying to be fair that I forgot how to be kind to myself.
The house became my obsession.
I convinced myself that once the house sold, everything would finally be over.
I clung to that hope during the worst moments.
Just get the house sold.
Just make it to closing.
Just get through this one last hurdle.
Then you’ll be free.
That promise kept me going.
When the closing finally happened, I should have felt relief.
Instead, I felt numb.
The final numbers showed what I had feared all along.
The reverse mortgage took everything.
There was nothing left.
No inheritance.
No distributions.
No checks to send to the beneficiaries.
Nothing.
I sat there staring at the numbers thinking, “How can months of work end with nothing?”
How can so much effort, stress, sacrifice, and emotional pain lead to an empty account?
I wasn’t grieving the money.
I was grieving the hope.
The hope that there would be some positive ending.
The hope that all of this struggle would lead somewhere.
The hope that my father’s final chapter would bring our family together instead of exposing every crack that already existed.
Instead, I was left with the crushing realization that there was nothing to distribute except disappointment.
And even now, it still isn’t over.
One of my brothers owes the estate a lot of money.
To resolve it, he will make payments each month.
For nearly four years.
Four more years.
When I tell people that, they don’t understand why I get emotional.
But those four years aren’t just numbers on a calendar.
They represent four more years of being tied to this estate.
Four more years of tracking payments.
Four more years of records and reminders.
Four more years of wondering whether the next payment will arrive.
Four more years before I can finally close the file that has taken over so much of my life.
I feel trapped.
I feel angry.
I feel guilty for being angry.
I feel resentful that my life continues to be dictated by responsibilities I never asked for.
Most of all, I feel exhausted.
There are days when I look back and realize that I have spent this time carrying everyone else’s problems while neglecting my own needs, being responsible, being the strong one, holding everything together.
And sometimes I wonder who was holding me together. (I know the answer – my awesome, loving husband.)
I miss my father.
Not the estate.
Not the paperwork.
Not the house.
I miss my dad.
I miss the man who existed before the debts, before the reverse mortgage, before probate, before family conflict turned every conversation into a negotiation.
I wish I could remember him without immediately thinking about legal documents and financial statements.
I wish his memory wasn’t tangled up in stress and obligation.
I wish this chapter had ended differently.
Most days, I keep moving because I don’t know what else to do.
I check another box.
File another document.
Answer another email.
Make another phone call.
And I tell myself that eventually there will be an end.
But if I’m honest, there are moments when I lose sight of that end completely.
Moments when I sit quietly and wonder how much longer I can carry this weight.
Moments when I feel forgotten.
Moments when I feel used.
Moments when I feel like the cost of doing the right thing has been far greater than anyone realizes.
The house has sold.
The estate is almost finished.
Yet I still don’t feel free.
I feel sad.
I feel worn out.
I feel disappointed.
I feel angry.
I feel heartbroken by what grief, money, and responsibility can do to a family.
And some days, after all this time, I simply sit with the overwhelming thought that I have given so much of myself to this process that I am no longer sure how much is left.
I know I will get through it.
I always do.
But right now, I am tired.
So very, very tired.
***Yes, I know that if certain people read this, they will be upset. I might worry if I thought that any of them would read this, but I know they won’t. That just adds to my sadness.
