Day 43 – Autobiography

…

The Art of Telling a Compelling Autobiographical Story

Public Speaking vs. Storycraft: Where Does the Magic Really Happen?

When you sit down to write—or speak—about your own life, you’re not just recounting facts. You’re performing a delicate alchemy that turns raw experience into meaning, connection, and, ultimately, impact.
So, what makes an autobiographical story truly compelling?

Is it the fire‑breathing oratory skills of a seasoned public speaker?
Or is it the careful curation of narrative elements that turn a mundane day into a lesson worth sharing?

The short answer: Both matter, but they occupy different stages of the storytelling pipeline.

In this post, I’ll unpack the two halves of the equation, illustrate how they interlock, and give you a concrete, step‑by‑step roadmap you can apply whether you’re drafting a memoir, delivering a TED‑style talk, or simply sharing a pivotal moment on Instagram.

---

 The Foundation: Storycraft (Finding the Elements)

Think of a story as a house. Storycraft is the architecture, the blueprint, the framing, and the plumbing. Without a solid structure, even the most charismatic speaker will end up shouting into an empty room.

1.1 Identify the Core Why

Every great autobiographical piece answers a single, unifying question: Why does this matter now, to you and to the audience?

• Personal relevance: What did you learn? How did you change?
• Universal resonance: What larger human truth does your experience illustrate?

Exercise: Write a one‑sentence “logline” for your story. Example:

“When I lost my job at 27, I discovered that failure can be the most reliable GPS to my true purpose.”

If you can’t distil it to a sentence, you haven’t yet found your core why.

1.2 Choose the Right Arc

Even autobiographical narratives follow the classic story arc: Setup → Conflict → Climax → Resolution. The difference is that the “conflict” is often internal (self‑doubt, fear, identity) rather than external.

Stage	What It Looks Like in Autobiography
Setup	A snapshot of ordinary life before the inciting incident.
Conflict	The obstacle—loss, betrayal, illness, decision.
Climax	The moment you confront the obstacle, often with a painful choice.
Resolution	The aftermath—what you learned, how you moved forward.

If you skip any of these beats, the audience will feel the story is either too vague or too rushed.

1.3 Pinpoint the Emotional Beats

Facts are the scaffolding; emotions are the paint that makes the house feel lived‑in. Identify three emotional high‑points you want the audience to experience:

1. Empathy – “I felt invisible in a room of strangers.”
2. Tension – “My heart pounded as the deadline loomed.”
3. Catharsis – “When I finally spoke up, the weight lifted.”

Write a quick paragraph for each, describing the sensory details (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste). Sensory language is the secret sauce that turns a timeline into a lived experience.

1.4 Trim the Fat – Storytelling Efficiency

Autobiographies are notorious for “everything I ever did” syndrome. Ruthlessly edit:

• Delete events that don’t serve the core why.
• Combine similar anecdotes into a single, stronger vignette.
• Replace exposition with action. Show, don’t tell.

A lean narrative respects the audience’s time and heightens impact.

---

 The Delivery: Public Speaking (Bringing the Story to Life)

Now that you have a structurally sound house, public speaking is the interior design and the lighting that makes the space inviting, functional, and memorable.

2.1 Voice as Instrument

Your voice can convey sarcasm, awe, vulnerability, or triumph. Master three basic vocal tools:

Tool	How to Use It	Effect
Pacing	Slow down at emotional peaks; speed up for excitement.	Creates tension and release.
Volume	Whisper to draw listeners in; raise for moments of revelation.	Directs focus.
Pitch	Vary intonation to avoid monotone.	Keeps audience alert.

Practice tip: Record a 2‑minute reading of your story. Highlight moments where the vocal variation feels flat and rehearse those sections with intentional changes.

2.2 Body Language – The Unspoken Narrative

Humans are wired to read 55% of communication from non‑verbal cues. Use your body to reinforce the story:

• Open posture when sharing triumphs (arms spread, shoulders back).
• Closed posture (slight hunch, crossed arms) during moments of vulnerability to cue empathy.
• Eye contact—scan the room, not just one person; it signals honesty.

2.3 Timing & Rhythm – The Beat of Your Story

Think of your narrative as a song. The chorus (core why) should be repeated at strategic intervals—once after the setup, again after the climax, and finally in the resolution.

• Pause after a powerful line. A 2‑second silence lets the audience digest.
• Use “beat drops.” Insert a short, humorous anecdote or a rhetorical question before the climax to heighten anticipation.

2.4 Adaptation to Audience & Medium

A live stage talk, a podcast interview, and a LinkedIn article each demand distinct adjustments:

Medium	Adaptation
Stage	Bigger gestures, stronger vocal projection, visual aids (photos, slides).
Podcast	Focus on vocal texture, descriptive language (no visuals).
Written	Lean on vivid imagery, internal monologue, and pacing through paragraph breaks.

Understanding the platform ensures your story’s “house” looks good in any lighting.

---

 The Sweet Spot: When Storycraft Meets Speaking

The real magic happens when the narrative skeleton and the performance flesh are in perfect sync. Here’s a quick checklist you can use right before any autobiographical presentation:

Checklist	How to Test
Core why is crystal clear	Can a stranger summarize your story in one sentence?
Arc is complete	Does the story move from setup → conflict → climax → resolution?
Three emotional beats identified	Can you point to three moments where you will deliberately shift tone?
Vocal variation planned	Have you marked where to pause, speed up, or lower volume?
Body cues rehearsed	Do you have a gesture for each emotional beat?
Audience‑specific tweaks ready	Have you altered any jargon, examples, or length for this crowd?

If you check off at least 5 of the 6 items, you’re ready to captivate.

---

 Real‑World Example: From Memoir to TED Talk

Let’s see the framework in action with a well‑known case: Brené Brown’s “The Power of Vulnerability.”

1. Storycraft
   • Why: She wanted to show that embracing vulnerability is the key to authentic connection.
   • Arc: From academic curiosity → personal shame → research breakthrough → invitation to live vulnerably.
   • Emotional Beats: The embarrassment of a failed experiment, the exhilaration of a breakthrough, the relief of sharing her truth.
2. Speaking
   • Voice: She uses a warm, conversational tone, slowing at key insights.
   • Body: Open gestures, frequent eye contact, occasional self‑deprecating smile.
   • Timing: She repeats the phrase “vulnerability is our greatest measure of courage” at the opening, middle, and end—creating a lyrical refrain.

The talk went viral because the story’s architecture was airtight, and the delivery amplified every emotional note. Replicating that synergy is possible for anyone willing to invest in both sides of the equation.

---

 Your Action Plan: 7‑Day Sprint to a Compelling Autobiographical Piece

Day	Goal	Output
1	Clarify Why	One‑sentence logline.
2	Map the Arc	Bullet list of Setup, Conflict, Climax, Resolution.
3	Harvest Emotional Beats	Three sensory‑rich paragraphs.
4	Draft Full Narrative	800‑word first draft (no editing yet).
5	Trim & Refine	Reduce to 600 words, cut any unrelated tangents.
6	Voice & Body Rehearsal	Record a 3‑minute reading; mark pauses, volume changes, gestures.
7	Live Test Run‑through	Deliver to a friend or small group; solicit feedback on clarity, emotion, and presence.

Stick to this schedule, and you’ll have a polished story ready for any medium by the end of the week.

---

  The Bottom Line

• Storycraft is the indispensable base. Without a clear why, a solid arc, and vivid emotional beats, even the best speaker will have nothing meaningful to say.
• Public speaking is the catalyst. It transforms the written narrative into a lived experience that can move, persuade, and inspire.
• The art lies in integrating both. Think of yourself as both architect and performer—build a house that not only stands but also feels like home to anyone who steps inside.

Your next autobiographical project—whether it lands on paper, a podcast, or a stage—will be far more compelling if you spend equal time designing the story and practising the delivery.

Ready to share your truth with the world? Grab a notebook, apply the framework above, and watch your personal narrative evolve from “just an experience” to a memorable, resonant story that people can’t help but remember.

---

If you found this post useful, feel free to subscribe for more storytelling strategies, or drop a comment with your own autobiographical storytelling challenges. Let’s keep the conversation—and the stories—alive!

Day 43 – Autobiography

…

The Art of Telling a Compelling Autobiographical Story

Public Speaking vs. Storycraft: Where Does the Magic Really Happen?

When you sit down to write—or speak—about your own life, you’re not just recounting facts. You’re performing a delicate alchemy that turns raw experience into meaning, connection, and, ultimately, impact.
So, what makes an autobiographical story truly compelling?

Is it the fire‑breathing oratory skills of a seasoned public speaker?
Or is it the careful curation of narrative elements that turn a mundane day into a lesson worth sharing?

The short answer: Both matter, but they occupy different stages of the storytelling pipeline.

In this post, I’ll unpack the two halves of the equation, illustrate how they interlock, and give you a concrete, step‑by‑step roadmap you can apply whether you’re drafting a memoir, delivering a TED‑style talk, or simply sharing a pivotal moment on Instagram.

---

 The Foundation: Storycraft (Finding the Elements)

Think of a story as a house. Storycraft is the architecture, the blueprint, the framing, and the plumbing. Without a solid structure, even the most charismatic speaker will end up shouting into an empty room.

1.1 Identify the Core Why

Every great autobiographical piece answers a single, unifying question: Why does this matter now, to you and to the audience?

• Personal relevance: What did you learn? How did you change?
• Universal resonance: What larger human truth does your experience illustrate?

Exercise: Write a one‑sentence “logline” for your story. Example:

“When I lost my job at 27, I discovered that failure can be the most reliable GPS to my true purpose.”

If you can’t distil it to a sentence, you haven’t yet found your core why.

1.2 Choose the Right Arc

Even autobiographical narratives follow the classic story arc: Setup → Conflict → Climax → Resolution. The difference is that the “conflict” is often internal (self‑doubt, fear, identity) rather than external.

Stage	What It Looks Like in Autobiography
Setup	A snapshot of ordinary life before the inciting incident.
Conflict	The obstacle—loss, betrayal, illness, decision.
Climax	The moment you confront the obstacle, often with a painful choice.
Resolution	The aftermath—what you learned, how you moved forward.

If you skip any of these beats, the audience will feel the story is either too vague or too rushed.

1.3 Pinpoint the Emotional Beats

Facts are the scaffolding; emotions are the paint that makes the house feel lived‑in. Identify three emotional high‑points you want the audience to experience:

1. Empathy – “I felt invisible in a room of strangers.”
2. Tension – “My heart pounded as the deadline loomed.”
3. Catharsis – “When I finally spoke up, the weight lifted.”

Write a quick paragraph for each, describing the sensory details (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste). Sensory language is the secret sauce that turns a timeline into a lived experience.

1.4 Trim the Fat – Storytelling Efficiency

Autobiographies are notorious for “everything I ever did” syndrome. Ruthlessly edit:

• Delete events that don’t serve the core why.
• Combine similar anecdotes into a single, stronger vignette.
• Replace exposition with action. Show, don’t tell.

A lean narrative respects the audience’s time and heightens impact.

---

 The Delivery: Public Speaking (Bringing the Story to Life)

Now that you have a structurally sound house, public speaking is the interior design and the lighting that makes the space inviting, functional, and memorable.

2.1 Voice as Instrument

Your voice can convey sarcasm, awe, vulnerability, or triumph. Master three basic vocal tools:

Tool	How to Use It	Effect
Pacing	Slow down at emotional peaks; speed up for excitement.	Creates tension and release.
Volume	Whisper to draw listeners in; raise for moments of revelation.	Directs focus.
Pitch	Vary intonation to avoid monotone.	Keeps audience alert.

Practice tip: Record a 2‑minute reading of your story. Highlight moments where the vocal variation feels flat and rehearse those sections with intentional changes.

2.2 Body Language – The Unspoken Narrative

Humans are wired to read 55% of communication from non‑verbal cues. Use your body to reinforce the story:

• Open posture when sharing triumphs (arms spread, shoulders back).
• Closed posture (slight hunch, crossed arms) during moments of vulnerability to cue empathy.
• Eye contact—scan the room, not just one person; it signals honesty.

2.3 Timing & Rhythm – The Beat of Your Story

Think of your narrative as a song. The chorus (core why) should be repeated at strategic intervals—once after the setup, again after the climax, and finally in the resolution.

• Pause after a powerful line. A 2‑second silence lets the audience digest.
• Use “beat drops.” Insert a short, humorous anecdote or a rhetorical question before the climax to heighten anticipation.

2.4 Adaptation to Audience & Medium

A live stage talk, a podcast interview, and a LinkedIn article each demand distinct adjustments:

Medium	Adaptation
Stage	Bigger gestures, stronger vocal projection, visual aids (photos, slides).
Podcast	Focus on vocal texture, descriptive language (no visuals).
Written	Lean on vivid imagery, internal monologue, and pacing through paragraph breaks.

Understanding the platform ensures your story’s “house” looks good in any lighting.

---

 The Sweet Spot: When Storycraft Meets Speaking

The real magic happens when the narrative skeleton and the performance flesh are in perfect sync. Here’s a quick checklist you can use right before any autobiographical presentation:

Checklist	How to Test
Core why is crystal clear	Can a stranger summarize your story in one sentence?
Arc is complete	Does the story move from setup → conflict → climax → resolution?
Three emotional beats identified	Can you point to three moments where you will deliberately shift tone?
Vocal variation planned	Have you marked where to pause, speed up, or lower volume?
Body cues rehearsed	Do you have a gesture for each emotional beat?
Audience‑specific tweaks ready	Have you altered any jargon, examples, or length for this crowd?

If you check off at least 5 of the 6 items, you’re ready to captivate.

---

 Real‑World Example: From Memoir to TED Talk

Let’s see the framework in action with a well‑known case: Brené Brown’s “The Power of Vulnerability.”

1. Storycraft
   • Why: She wanted to show that embracing vulnerability is the key to authentic connection.
   • Arc: From academic curiosity → personal shame → research breakthrough → invitation to live vulnerably.
   • Emotional Beats: The embarrassment of a failed experiment, the exhilaration of a breakthrough, the relief of sharing her truth.
2. Speaking
   • Voice: She uses a warm, conversational tone, slowing at key insights.
   • Body: Open gestures, frequent eye contact, occasional self‑deprecating smile.
   • Timing: She repeats the phrase “vulnerability is our greatest measure of courage” at the opening, middle, and end—creating a lyrical refrain.

The talk went viral because the story’s architecture was airtight, and the delivery amplified every emotional note. Replicating that synergy is possible for anyone willing to invest in both sides of the equation.

---

 Your Action Plan: 7‑Day Sprint to a Compelling Autobiographical Piece

Day	Goal	Output
1	Clarify Why	One‑sentence logline.
2	Map the Arc	Bullet list of Setup, Conflict, Climax, Resolution.
3	Harvest Emotional Beats	Three sensory‑rich paragraphs.
4	Draft Full Narrative	800‑word first draft (no editing yet).
5	Trim & Refine	Reduce to 600 words, cut any unrelated tangents.
6	Voice & Body Rehearsal	Record a 3‑minute reading; mark pauses, volume changes, gestures.
7	Live Test Run‑through	Deliver to a friend or small group; solicit feedback on clarity, emotion, and presence.

Stick to this schedule, and you’ll have a polished story ready for any medium by the end of the week.

---

  The Bottom Line

• Storycraft is the indispensable base. Without a clear why, a solid arc, and vivid emotional beats, even the best speaker will have nothing meaningful to say.
• Public speaking is the catalyst. It transforms the written narrative into a lived experience that can move, persuade, and inspire.
• The art lies in integrating both. Think of yourself as both architect and performer—build a house that not only stands but also feels like home to anyone who steps inside.

Your next autobiographical project—whether it lands on paper, a podcast, or a stage—will be far more compelling if you spend equal time designing the story and practising the delivery.

Ready to share your truth with the world? Grab a notebook, apply the framework above, and watch your personal narrative evolve from “just an experience” to a memorable, resonant story that people can’t help but remember.

---

If you found this post useful, feel free to subscribe for more storytelling strategies, or drop a comment with your own autobiographical storytelling challenges. Let’s keep the conversation—and the stories—alive!

Day 42 – The writers mind

…

“The Writer’s Mind: Beyond Inspiration, Embracing the Power of Stubbornness and Patience”

Introduction: A Question of Depth

Have you ever compared a writer to a miner toiling in a dimly lit cave, chipping away at the rock not with a pickaxe, but with a fragile needle? This vivid metaphor—digging a well with a needle—captures the essence of the writer’s mind: not a vessel for fleeting inspiration, but a forge for stubbornness and patience. So, what truly defines a writer’s mind? Is it the spark of inspiration, or the quiet, relentless force of persistence?

---

The Myth of Inspiration: A Spark That Flickers

Pop culture often paints writers as scribes waiting for divine whispers, sitting by windows with blank pages and poetic daydreams. While inspiration undeniably provides a spark, it is but a matchstick in the fireplace of creation. Stephen King once said, “If it’s just sitting there, waiting to be written, why not write it?” This mindset reframes inspiration as a beginning, not a destination. Waiting for the “right moment” can become a prison. The truth? Ideas are seeds; they need tending, not just falling from the sky.

---

The Reality: A Symphony of Persistence and Patience

The writer’s mind is less a lightning bolt and more a marathon. Consider J.K. Rowling, who penned drafts of Harry Potter while raising a child on welfare. Or Maya Angelou, who wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings after years of honing her voice. These stories reveal a pattern: legendary works are forged through relentless effort.

Persistence isn’t just about writing; it’s about rewriting, revising, and surviving rejection. Hemingway famously reworked the last page of A Farewell to Arms 39 times. This is the heart of the writer’s mind—not genius, but grit.

---

The Well-Metaphor: Chipping Away to Find the Flow

Imagine digging a well with nothing but a needle. The ground is rocky, the process endless, and doubt creeps in. Yet, somewhere beneath the surface, water waits. The writer’s mind is this process: slow, methodical, and demanding unwavering resolve. Each word, sentence, and draft is a careful poke at the earth. There’s no shortcut, no instant success—only the gradual discovery of a depth that was always there.

This metaphor also mirrors the emotional journey. There are days when the needle slips, and the hole seems futile. But the well, once unearthed, becomes a source of life. So too does the act of writing become a wellspring of clarity and purpose—if only you keep digging.

---

Embracing the Grind: Practical Wisdom for Writers

1. Show Up Daily: Treat writing like a craft, not a performance. Neil Gaiman advises, “Write every day, even when you don’t want to.”
2. Refine, Don’t Perfection: Let your first draft be messy. The magic happens in the revisions.
3. Track Progress: Like a miner tallying each inch, note your progress—words written, pages turned.
4. Celebrate Small Wins: Finished a paragraph? A chapter? Honour those victories; they’re proof of your stubbornness.
5. Lean on the Community: Join writing groups. The collective grit of fellow writers fuels your fire.

---

Conclusion: The Writer’s Mind is a Masterpiece of Perseverance

In the end, a writer’s mind is not defined by inspiration but by the conviction to return to the page, time and again, like a miner with a needle. It’s the courage to dig when the well seems a mirage, and the patience to believe the water will flow. So, the next time you grapple with the blankness of a page or the weight of a half-finished novel, remember: you’re not failing—you’re simply chipping away at the rock, one determined stroke at a time.

The well is there. Keep digging.

Day 42 – The writers mind

…

“The Writer’s Mind: Beyond Inspiration, Embracing the Power of Stubbornness and Patience”

Introduction: A Question of Depth

Have you ever compared a writer to a miner toiling in a dimly lit cave, chipping away at the rock not with a pickaxe, but with a fragile needle? This vivid metaphor—digging a well with a needle—captures the essence of the writer’s mind: not a vessel for fleeting inspiration, but a forge for stubbornness and patience. So, what truly defines a writer’s mind? Is it the spark of inspiration, or the quiet, relentless force of persistence?

---

The Myth of Inspiration: A Spark That Flickers

Pop culture often paints writers as scribes waiting for divine whispers, sitting by windows with blank pages and poetic daydreams. While inspiration undeniably provides a spark, it is but a matchstick in the fireplace of creation. Stephen King once said, “If it’s just sitting there, waiting to be written, why not write it?” This mindset reframes inspiration as a beginning, not a destination. Waiting for the “right moment” can become a prison. The truth? Ideas are seeds; they need tending, not just falling from the sky.

---

The Reality: A Symphony of Persistence and Patience

The writer’s mind is less a lightning bolt and more a marathon. Consider J.K. Rowling, who penned drafts of Harry Potter while raising a child on welfare. Or Maya Angelou, who wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings after years of honing her voice. These stories reveal a pattern: legendary works are forged through relentless effort.

Persistence isn’t just about writing; it’s about rewriting, revising, and surviving rejection. Hemingway famously reworked the last page of A Farewell to Arms 39 times. This is the heart of the writer’s mind—not genius, but grit.

---

The Well-Metaphor: Chipping Away to Find the Flow

Imagine digging a well with nothing but a needle. The ground is rocky, the process endless, and doubt creeps in. Yet, somewhere beneath the surface, water waits. The writer’s mind is this process: slow, methodical, and demanding unwavering resolve. Each word, sentence, and draft is a careful poke at the earth. There’s no shortcut, no instant success—only the gradual discovery of a depth that was always there.

This metaphor also mirrors the emotional journey. There are days when the needle slips, and the hole seems futile. But the well, once unearthed, becomes a source of life. So too does the act of writing become a wellspring of clarity and purpose—if only you keep digging.

---

Embracing the Grind: Practical Wisdom for Writers

1. Show Up Daily: Treat writing like a craft, not a performance. Neil Gaiman advises, “Write every day, even when you don’t want to.”
2. Refine, Don’t Perfection: Let your first draft be messy. The magic happens in the revisions.
3. Track Progress: Like a miner tallying each inch, note your progress—words written, pages turned.
4. Celebrate Small Wins: Finished a paragraph? A chapter? Honour those victories; they’re proof of your stubbornness.
5. Lean on the Community: Join writing groups. The collective grit of fellow writers fuels your fire.

---

Conclusion: The Writer’s Mind is a Masterpiece of Perseverance

In the end, a writer’s mind is not defined by inspiration but by the conviction to return to the page, time and again, like a miner with a needle. It’s the courage to dig when the well seems a mirage, and the patience to believe the water will flow. So, the next time you grapple with the blankness of a page or the weight of a half-finished novel, remember: you’re not failing—you’re simply chipping away at the rock, one determined stroke at a time.

The well is there. Keep digging.

Day 41 – Writing exercise – This might be the last thing I ever tell you…

…

Here’s the thing.

You get to a point where you realise that your days are numbered.

It sneaks up on you, even though you know the end is near, but you don’t want to think about it, because it’s not time.

That last heart attack, the one the doctor warned you about if you didn’t slow down, well, thinking that it was not going to happen to you, it does.

But it’s inevitable.  Slowing down, taking it easy, it might stave off the inevitable, but it was always going to happen.

I’d lived a good life.  Not perfect.  I’d made mistakes, but we all do.  I thought that when I’d lost Elsie, my life was over.

It wasn’t.  God had other plans for me. 

But now, I felt as though my work was done.

I could relax and let whatever was coming come.

…

Father Bernard was an eternal optimist.  I guess being a priest, you had to be.

I’m sure he had seen everything, and then some.  He wasn’t much younger than I, and when I broached the subject of retirement, he always said he had a little more of God’s work to be before he departed this mortal earth.

How he could put on a happy face visiting us, poor, wretched, dying souls, was beyond me.  But it was a palliative care ward, and we were all on that last stretch, from third base to home.

I felt his approach, rather than seeing, my eyes no longer bring what they used to be.  It was followed by the gentle squeak as his bulk tried to find a comfortable position.

“Still trying to sneak up on me?” I said.

“I don’t think that’s possible.  You don’t fool me.”

I opened my eyes and waited until his face came into focus.  We were both at the end of our run.

“Can’t help trying to beat the odds.  The tribe are coming tomorrow.  They think I’m dragging this out just to inconvenience them.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Perhaps a little.  They want their inheritance. Last month, Joseph tried to convince me that the money was no use to me, given my prospects.”

“Given your prospects.  He’s a doctor now?”

“After consulting with Richards, I’m sure he’s asked if there was a way of hastening the process.  He says he needs the money.”

“Then he doesn’t know?”

My children and their children had certain expectations given to them by my eldest son, the mercenary.  I found it rather strange that he had always been expecting to cash in on the Morgan millions.  There was never a lot of money, but I expect he and the others could wait to find out how much they were getting.

And after a bad run a year ago when they all thought I was going to die, as indeed I did too, they had all slugged in anticipation of a payday, and found themselves drowning in debt.

I was surprised they hadn’t sent in an assassin.

“I told him.  I told them all.  The coffers are empty.  The last of the fortune is going to these people, though I have to say, for the premium care package, it’s pretty ordinary.”

“You could be talking to the vicar’s dog, instead of me.  Your eulogy is going to be the best you’ve ever heard.”

“How’s that going?”

“Still struggling to find anything nice about you.  I’m sure it’s out there somewhere.”

A face appeared in the doorway.  The youngest of Joseph’s brood, with seven elder siblings, she had suffered the most.  He favoured the boys, and the two girls got very little.

I felt sorry for them and helped where I could

Father Bernard dragged himself out of the chair.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  You might need some moral support.”

He nodded to Elsie as he passed her.  She came in and sat in the recently vacated chair.

“Your dad knows you’re here?”

“I asked him to come with me.  As you can see, he didn’t.”

“He’s coming tomorrow.”

“I’m not.  Got work at the diner.”

“Maisie?”

Maisie was her older sister.  She was no longer at home, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her father.

“Swears she’ll never talk to him again.  The so-called inheritance is going to the boys.  He said we should find rich husbands if we wanted money.”

“Not what your mother would say, or be pleased about if she were still around.  A pity.  But who knows, you might become filthy rich one day.”

“If only.”

“Have you decided what you want to do?”  She had just finished high school with excellent grades.  The trouble was the fees for a college education.  Her father was never going to pay.

“It’s no use even thinking about it.  I’m never going to be able to afford it.  Not on the money I earn.”

“What if I did some juggling?”

“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have to.  That money is for you, and your care.”

“I’m not going to be around for much longer.”

“And not spite dad?  That isn’t you, Grandpa.  You know how antsy he is about his non-existent inheritance.  They all sit around the table divvying up the spoils.  They even fight over it.”

“Well, don’t you be like them.  Like I told you, your father took the education funds your grandmother set up for you all and spent it on a failing business.  Lucky his mother had died, or she would have killed him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because there is this thing called the psychological moment, and that’s when I intend to see the look on his face.”

“Can I be there when it happens?”

“I’m sure you will be.”

…

Elsie was the only one of my grandchildren who came to see me every other day, because the hospice was on her way home between the school and her home.  Maisie came to see me less frequently but more often than all the others.

The boys clearly didn’t want to be there, but they were made to sit out five sullen minutes before they were dismissed.

Elsie thought it was sad that I was dying alone and miserable, but I said nothing could be further from the truth.  I had fellow patients and the priest continually dropping in.  And she came to see me, so I didn’t feel alone.

Joseph had a brother, Harry, and a sister, Margaret, one who had moved to the other side of the country and was relatively successful.  Harry was completely opposite to his brother, taking after his mother.

Had been to see me once, when I moved into the hospice, and I told him they’d let him know when I was about to die, so he could be there, if he wanted to.  I said it would not bother me if he missed.  Death wasn’t a pretty thing to watch.

Margaret was not that far away, but had a demanding life looking after family, the house, and work.  Times were difficult.  She was always tired but upbeat.  She had her mother’s strength.  My imminent passing was just another thing on her worry list.

That her visits were erratic was understandable.

Today, it was a surprise.

Mid afternoon, before Joseph and the tribe arrived she walked through the door.  There was an air of exhaustion about her, and something else.

My worst fear was that she would get what killed her mother.  The doctors said it was a million-to-one chance, but odds were something I never diced with.

She slumped into the chair.  In her mid forties, she was as devastatingly beautiful as her mother, but tended to hide it away.  She was born an angel and would always be one.

“I’m sure whatever it is, Marge, it can’t be that bad.”

I’d given her a few moments to gather herself.

“On a scale of one to ten, not as bad as you.  Doc Richard’s called and said the end is near.  I think he’s got his wires crossed. You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Modern medicine.”

“Right.  If I didn’t know you better, it would be spite.  How is my darling brother?”

“Still an ass.”

She smiled.  “What went wrong?”

“Your mother used to say he took too long to come out, wasn’t ready for the world.”

“It wasn’t ready for him.  I feel sorry for his girls.”

She’s lambasted him more than once over his attitude towards them, even warned his wife before they were married.  After Elsie, she stayed for five years, then, one day, packed a bag and left.

When a trace of her could be found, the police charged him with murder, and until she finally made an appearance, briefly, he was going to spend his life in jail.

We were very glad to hand his kids back, just when he thought we’d keep them.  We probably should have.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Do you have a week?”

Of all of them, she was the only one who didn’t dance around me on eggshells.

“I can clear a spot in my hectic schedule, between the chronic gambler and the man who dreams of Amazonian women.”

She looked at me oddly, sometimes forgetting I worked as a clinical psychologist.

“Inmates.  The drugs make them delusional.  There’s also a Hollywood it girl, whatever that means.  I think Gloria didn’t want to die a cleaner.”

She shook her head.  “We are what we are.”

“In that, I beg to differ.  You have always been our little angel, and all you have to do is sit there, and I feel like I’m in heaven.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better.”

She had perked up, which is what I was hoping for. 

“You think that after you go, you’ll see Mum again?”

We’d often had long discussions on the afterlife.  It was a common theme in this place that once we’re dead, we would join our loved ones in heaven.  If we have to go to heaven.

“I’m hoping to.  Father Bernard says that I’ll be going to heaven because I have the patience of a saint.  I guess lying to a priest won’t get me to the pearly gates.”

We both pondered what any of that meant other than small talk for dying people, and I pulled out the surprise.

She saw me take it out from under the pillow.

“Is that….?”

“The fabled diary?  Yes.  Preserved and about to be presented in accordance with your mother’s wishes.”

I handed her the aged leather-bound diary that her mother had written during the gap year between high school and college, of the six months she spent in Italy and Greece seeing the ancient wonders of the world, and a whole lot more, meticulously recorded.

Margaret carefully hugged it to her, tears in her eyes, the last and most prized possession of her mother.  She had asked me to give it to her at the appropriate time. That was now.

“There is one more thing that goes with it.  You, your daughters, and both Maisie and Elsie will be going on a field trip, all of you, retracing her steps, day by day.  The funds are set aside, the travel arrangements getting there, getting around the little hotels, and the places, you just have to go to the travel agent named in the front of the book.

“It’s all in place.  Money and legalities, Mr Winter, you’ve met him.  There’s no saying no for any of you. I have made arrangements to handle both your spouses and the boys.  They will never understand the meaning of this escapade.

“Your mother always intended this to happen, just not take so long.”

It took a few minutes before she could speak.  “How, why. It’s impossible…”

“And yet its not.  It had nothing to do with the inheritance.  Winter has taken care of everything.  You simply pack a bag and get on the plane.”

“Joseph’s girls?”

“They won’t say no.  Joseph has no say, not if he wants anything from the estate.  He’s about to discover the truth if his situation, and you don’t want to be here for that.”

“I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe you had this all this time.”

“I was my most treasured possession.  Now it is yours.  My time is limited.  I have memorised every word, every nuance.  The day we met is there, and she let me off lightly.  She did not suffer fools gladly, and I was a fool back then.”

Father Bernard hovered outside the door.

“But, now you have it, Marg, treasure, because for me, that was worth more than any material wealth.  You are the master of your own and the other girls’ destinies, as your mother always intended.  I’ve seen to it that you have the means.”

She slowly rose out of her seat, took my hand, and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry, Dad, for everything.  I wasn’t the greatest of children.”

“You were your mother.  She knew the little firebrand she’d created.  It’s why you two fought so much.  Two peas in a pod.  And she loved you so very much.”

“Don’t you dare die before we han have one more chat.”  She patted the diary.  “About this.”

“No guarantees, I’m afraid.  But Joseph is coming.  Don’t let the others decline, they need to see her as I saw her, the free spirit she truly was, before children and responsibility.  It wears us all down in the end.”

…

Farther Bernard had to run interference until Margaret left, a role he relished because of Joseph’s contempt for God and the church.  He made the conversion of non-believers his mission in life.

I called him the Patron Saint of non-believers.

He came in and took the seat before Joseph and the tribe walked in.

There was no doubting the contempt in his eyes for the priest.  The priest’s greeting was very obsequious.  If Joseph expected him to leave, it wasn’t going to happen.

I called the nurse to see if a few seats could be found, and after Joseph and Lucinda had sat and the three sons told to stay put and not use their phones, I started the ball rolling.

“I’ve asked Father Bernard to act as a witness to our discussion because I think you are acting under a misapprehension about what is going to happen when I die.”

Joseph looked sullen, Lucindale furious, the others restless.

“I can imagine you lot sitting around the table divvying up the spoils.”

Lucinda rolled her eyes and elbowed Joseph.  “I told you those brats would come here and tell him everything.”

“They’re not brats, Lucy, they’re my granddaughters.  There’s a distinction.”

She simply sighed.

“So, this might be the last thing I ever tell you.  Whatever you think you’re entitled to, you’re not.  You took your mother’s money set aside for your two girls and wasted it on your boys.  When Maisie told me what you did, that was the day we changed our wills. 

“Harry and his family came to see me a few weeks back, and he asked for nothing.  He has never asked for anything. 

“Margaret has been in far more times than you have, and we spoke of old times and the battles of will.  In a way, she was more heartache and angst for your mother and me than you were, but she changed, what I like to think mellowed, and we have made peace.  She is everything your mother was, and will be everything we could have hoped for.

“Now there’s you, Joseph, and seriously, what the hell went wrong?”

He had been looking sullen from the moment he walked in.  Now, it seemed he’d heard enough.  He stood, almost knocking the chair over.

“I don’t need a lecture from a broken old man.”

“Perhaps not.  But if you want a piece of the inheritance, the price is to sit down, shut up, and take your medicine.”

He sat.

“I don’t have to.”  Lucinda, I think, just realised her ship was sailing, not coming in.

“That’s fine, Lucy.  If you walk out that door, you will be deported.  I spoke to Javier, and he wanted to know where you are.  Don’t give me a reason to tell him.”

She slumped back in her chair.  I had found out quite by accident when she used Joseph as a reference, and it had been forwarded to me by mistake, throwing up a different surname.  Her married name, back in the Philippines.  A marriage that had not ended in death, divorce or annulment.

“What’s that about?”  Joseph looked understandably angry.

He didn’t know she was trying to get members of her family into the country using his name.

“Nothing.  We’ll talk later.”

It was exhausting talking to Joseph.  The three boys had been watching and wanted to be anywhere but this room.

“I’ll make this short.  When you leave here, you go to Mr Winter.  You’ve had dealings with him so you know who he is and where he is.  Do it soon.

“There, you will be given a document to sign.  It advises that your house mortgage will be paid out, on the condition that if you break any of the conditions stated, the house becomes the property of your brother or sister.  There is no discussion on this.  You have a long history of saying one thing and doing something else.  Now you have to stick to your word.

“You will also have the balance of your main credit card paid in full, on condition that you cancel it.  That is the balance as of midday today. 

“Any others you open will be your problem.  I suggest you keep away from credit.  You will also sign a document that says you have no further claim on my estate.  I strongly advise you to accept the terms.  It’s the best you’re going to get.”

“What about the boys?”

“They’re your responsibility, not mine.”

“So the girls get something, and they get nothing.”

“Think about what you did with their education and coming-of-age funds, Joseph. That was their inheritance.  What they would have got is the repayment of what they didn’t deserve.”

“That’s not fair.”  Albert, the oldest, finally spoke.

I think that was the first time in five years he’d said a word to me.

“You need to take that up with your father.  Expectation is a bitch, Albert, and you should have followed in Maisie’s footsteps.  Make the most of what you have and rely only on your own recognisance.  The same goes for the other two.

“Now I’m done.  You don’t need to come back if you don’t want to.  Like I said, Joseph.  If you don’t accept the deal before I die, you get nothing.”

…

Winters had told me that I could set up all the disbursements before I died, so long as there was someone to manage them. 

Harry had agreed to be that person.  He had no qualms with teaching Joseph lessons in financial management, though he did say he didn’t like the idea of taking his house if he didn’t accept what I thought were reasonable terms.

Matilda, Harry’s wife, didn’t think she would go with the other women to Italy, but would visit.  She had young children who would be difficult to separate from.

Winters finally reported that Joseph had accepted the deal, but that was probably because alumina had been sent home; he had reported her himself.  But he was still unaware of the trip his girls were about to make.

Margaret had finally set up a family group chat on Facebook and got all the girls to join, and then told them of the quest she and the others were to go on.  It got complete acceptance, and plans were well in advance when Margaret and Elsie came to see me.

It was time.

Old age and a heavy tiredness came over me that morning, and it was difficult to breathe.  I had asked them not to come; I didn’t want them to see me as this old, worn-out husk of what I used to be.

Father Bernard had dropped in mid-morning and knew that the end was near.  He was ready, the accoutrements of death with him.

The girls came in with brave faces, but those facades soon broke into tears.  There were no words, and even if there were, I was too tired to say them.

They told me of their plans, that it was next month, and they were so looking towards to their adventure.  Everyone was reading the diary, getting acquainted with the places and events.  All were gaining an appreciation for the mother and grandmother they had now, and wished they had known.

That was the problem with this lifetime.  Never enough time to do the little things, to get to know the one you love, get to do those things together, but there was never enough time.

I remember the doctor saying, “Say your goodbyes now.”

I think by this time I’d drift off into a place where, just on the periphery, I could see nnn, holding out her hand.

When I reached her, I took her hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze.  Finally, after a sigh of relief, we were together again. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 41 – Writing exercise – This might be the last thing I ever tell you…

…

Here’s the thing.

You get to a point where you realise that your days are numbered.

It sneaks up on you, even though you know the end is near, but you don’t want to think about it, because it’s not time.

That last heart attack, the one the doctor warned you about if you didn’t slow down, well, thinking that it was not going to happen to you, it does.

But it’s inevitable.  Slowing down, taking it easy, it might stave off the inevitable, but it was always going to happen.

I’d lived a good life.  Not perfect.  I’d made mistakes, but we all do.  I thought that when I’d lost Elsie, my life was over.

It wasn’t.  God had other plans for me. 

But now, I felt as though my work was done.

I could relax and let whatever was coming come.

…

Father Bernard was an eternal optimist.  I guess being a priest, you had to be.

I’m sure he had seen everything, and then some.  He wasn’t much younger than I, and when I broached the subject of retirement, he always said he had a little more of God’s work to be before he departed this mortal earth.

How he could put on a happy face visiting us, poor, wretched, dying souls, was beyond me.  But it was a palliative care ward, and we were all on that last stretch, from third base to home.

I felt his approach, rather than seeing, my eyes no longer bring what they used to be.  It was followed by the gentle squeak as his bulk tried to find a comfortable position.

“Still trying to sneak up on me?” I said.

“I don’t think that’s possible.  You don’t fool me.”

I opened my eyes and waited until his face came into focus.  We were both at the end of our run.

“Can’t help trying to beat the odds.  The tribe are coming tomorrow.  They think I’m dragging this out just to inconvenience them.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Perhaps a little.  They want their inheritance. Last month, Joseph tried to convince me that the money was no use to me, given my prospects.”

“Given your prospects.  He’s a doctor now?”

“After consulting with Richards, I’m sure he’s asked if there was a way of hastening the process.  He says he needs the money.”

“Then he doesn’t know?”

My children and their children had certain expectations given to them by my eldest son, the mercenary.  I found it rather strange that he had always been expecting to cash in on the Morgan millions.  There was never a lot of money, but I expect he and the others could wait to find out how much they were getting.

And after a bad run a year ago when they all thought I was going to die, as indeed I did too, they had all slugged in anticipation of a payday, and found themselves drowning in debt.

I was surprised they hadn’t sent in an assassin.

“I told him.  I told them all.  The coffers are empty.  The last of the fortune is going to these people, though I have to say, for the premium care package, it’s pretty ordinary.”

“You could be talking to the vicar’s dog, instead of me.  Your eulogy is going to be the best you’ve ever heard.”

“How’s that going?”

“Still struggling to find anything nice about you.  I’m sure it’s out there somewhere.”

A face appeared in the doorway.  The youngest of Joseph’s brood, with seven elder siblings, she had suffered the most.  He favoured the boys, and the two girls got very little.

I felt sorry for them and helped where I could

Father Bernard dragged himself out of the chair.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  You might need some moral support.”

He nodded to Elsie as he passed her.  She came in and sat in the recently vacated chair.

“Your dad knows you’re here?”

“I asked him to come with me.  As you can see, he didn’t.”

“He’s coming tomorrow.”

“I’m not.  Got work at the diner.”

“Maisie?”

Maisie was her older sister.  She was no longer at home, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her father.

“Swears she’ll never talk to him again.  The so-called inheritance is going to the boys.  He said we should find rich husbands if we wanted money.”

“Not what your mother would say, or be pleased about if she were still around.  A pity.  But who knows, you might become filthy rich one day.”

“If only.”

“Have you decided what you want to do?”  She had just finished high school with excellent grades.  The trouble was the fees for a college education.  Her father was never going to pay.

“It’s no use even thinking about it.  I’m never going to be able to afford it.  Not on the money I earn.”

“What if I did some juggling?”

“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have to.  That money is for you, and your care.”

“I’m not going to be around for much longer.”

“And not spite dad?  That isn’t you, Grandpa.  You know how antsy he is about his non-existent inheritance.  They all sit around the table divvying up the spoils.  They even fight over it.”

“Well, don’t you be like them.  Like I told you, your father took the education funds your grandmother set up for you all and spent it on a failing business.  Lucky his mother had died, or she would have killed him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because there is this thing called the psychological moment, and that’s when I intend to see the look on his face.”

“Can I be there when it happens?”

“I’m sure you will be.”

…

Elsie was the only one of my grandchildren who came to see me every other day, because the hospice was on her way home between the school and her home.  Maisie came to see me less frequently but more often than all the others.

The boys clearly didn’t want to be there, but they were made to sit out five sullen minutes before they were dismissed.

Elsie thought it was sad that I was dying alone and miserable, but I said nothing could be further from the truth.  I had fellow patients and the priest continually dropping in.  And she came to see me, so I didn’t feel alone.

Joseph had a brother, Harry, and a sister, Margaret, one who had moved to the other side of the country and was relatively successful.  Harry was completely opposite to his brother, taking after his mother.

Had been to see me once, when I moved into the hospice, and I told him they’d let him know when I was about to die, so he could be there, if he wanted to.  I said it would not bother me if he missed.  Death wasn’t a pretty thing to watch.

Margaret was not that far away, but had a demanding life looking after family, the house, and work.  Times were difficult.  She was always tired but upbeat.  She had her mother’s strength.  My imminent passing was just another thing on her worry list.

That her visits were erratic was understandable.

Today, it was a surprise.

Mid afternoon, before Joseph and the tribe arrived she walked through the door.  There was an air of exhaustion about her, and something else.

My worst fear was that she would get what killed her mother.  The doctors said it was a million-to-one chance, but odds were something I never diced with.

She slumped into the chair.  In her mid forties, she was as devastatingly beautiful as her mother, but tended to hide it away.  She was born an angel and would always be one.

“I’m sure whatever it is, Marge, it can’t be that bad.”

I’d given her a few moments to gather herself.

“On a scale of one to ten, not as bad as you.  Doc Richard’s called and said the end is near.  I think he’s got his wires crossed. You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Modern medicine.”

“Right.  If I didn’t know you better, it would be spite.  How is my darling brother?”

“Still an ass.”

She smiled.  “What went wrong?”

“Your mother used to say he took too long to come out, wasn’t ready for the world.”

“It wasn’t ready for him.  I feel sorry for his girls.”

She’s lambasted him more than once over his attitude towards them, even warned his wife before they were married.  After Elsie, she stayed for five years, then, one day, packed a bag and left.

When a trace of her could be found, the police charged him with murder, and until she finally made an appearance, briefly, he was going to spend his life in jail.

We were very glad to hand his kids back, just when he thought we’d keep them.  We probably should have.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Do you have a week?”

Of all of them, she was the only one who didn’t dance around me on eggshells.

“I can clear a spot in my hectic schedule, between the chronic gambler and the man who dreams of Amazonian women.”

She looked at me oddly, sometimes forgetting I worked as a clinical psychologist.

“Inmates.  The drugs make them delusional.  There’s also a Hollywood it girl, whatever that means.  I think Gloria didn’t want to die a cleaner.”

She shook her head.  “We are what we are.”

“In that, I beg to differ.  You have always been our little angel, and all you have to do is sit there, and I feel like I’m in heaven.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better.”

She had perked up, which is what I was hoping for. 

“You think that after you go, you’ll see Mum again?”

We’d often had long discussions on the afterlife.  It was a common theme in this place that once we’re dead, we would join our loved ones in heaven.  If we have to go to heaven.

“I’m hoping to.  Father Bernard says that I’ll be going to heaven because I have the patience of a saint.  I guess lying to a priest won’t get me to the pearly gates.”

We both pondered what any of that meant other than small talk for dying people, and I pulled out the surprise.

She saw me take it out from under the pillow.

“Is that….?”

“The fabled diary?  Yes.  Preserved and about to be presented in accordance with your mother’s wishes.”

I handed her the aged leather-bound diary that her mother had written during the gap year between high school and college, of the six months she spent in Italy and Greece seeing the ancient wonders of the world, and a whole lot more, meticulously recorded.

Margaret carefully hugged it to her, tears in her eyes, the last and most prized possession of her mother.  She had asked me to give it to her at the appropriate time. That was now.

“There is one more thing that goes with it.  You, your daughters, and both Maisie and Elsie will be going on a field trip, all of you, retracing her steps, day by day.  The funds are set aside, the travel arrangements getting there, getting around the little hotels, and the places, you just have to go to the travel agent named in the front of the book.

“It’s all in place.  Money and legalities, Mr Winter, you’ve met him.  There’s no saying no for any of you. I have made arrangements to handle both your spouses and the boys.  They will never understand the meaning of this escapade.

“Your mother always intended this to happen, just not take so long.”

It took a few minutes before she could speak.  “How, why. It’s impossible…”

“And yet its not.  It had nothing to do with the inheritance.  Winter has taken care of everything.  You simply pack a bag and get on the plane.”

“Joseph’s girls?”

“They won’t say no.  Joseph has no say, not if he wants anything from the estate.  He’s about to discover the truth if his situation, and you don’t want to be here for that.”

“I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe you had this all this time.”

“I was my most treasured possession.  Now it is yours.  My time is limited.  I have memorised every word, every nuance.  The day we met is there, and she let me off lightly.  She did not suffer fools gladly, and I was a fool back then.”

Father Bernard hovered outside the door.

“But, now you have it, Marg, treasure, because for me, that was worth more than any material wealth.  You are the master of your own and the other girls’ destinies, as your mother always intended.  I’ve seen to it that you have the means.”

She slowly rose out of her seat, took my hand, and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry, Dad, for everything.  I wasn’t the greatest of children.”

“You were your mother.  She knew the little firebrand she’d created.  It’s why you two fought so much.  Two peas in a pod.  And she loved you so very much.”

“Don’t you dare die before we han have one more chat.”  She patted the diary.  “About this.”

“No guarantees, I’m afraid.  But Joseph is coming.  Don’t let the others decline, they need to see her as I saw her, the free spirit she truly was, before children and responsibility.  It wears us all down in the end.”

…

Farther Bernard had to run interference until Margaret left, a role he relished because of Joseph’s contempt for God and the church.  He made the conversion of non-believers his mission in life.

I called him the Patron Saint of non-believers.

He came in and took the seat before Joseph and the tribe walked in.

There was no doubting the contempt in his eyes for the priest.  The priest’s greeting was very obsequious.  If Joseph expected him to leave, it wasn’t going to happen.

I called the nurse to see if a few seats could be found, and after Joseph and Lucinda had sat and the three sons told to stay put and not use their phones, I started the ball rolling.

“I’ve asked Father Bernard to act as a witness to our discussion because I think you are acting under a misapprehension about what is going to happen when I die.”

Joseph looked sullen, Lucindale furious, the others restless.

“I can imagine you lot sitting around the table divvying up the spoils.”

Lucinda rolled her eyes and elbowed Joseph.  “I told you those brats would come here and tell him everything.”

“They’re not brats, Lucy, they’re my granddaughters.  There’s a distinction.”

She simply sighed.

“So, this might be the last thing I ever tell you.  Whatever you think you’re entitled to, you’re not.  You took your mother’s money set aside for your two girls and wasted it on your boys.  When Maisie told me what you did, that was the day we changed our wills. 

“Harry and his family came to see me a few weeks back, and he asked for nothing.  He has never asked for anything. 

“Margaret has been in far more times than you have, and we spoke of old times and the battles of will.  In a way, she was more heartache and angst for your mother and me than you were, but she changed, what I like to think mellowed, and we have made peace.  She is everything your mother was, and will be everything we could have hoped for.

“Now there’s you, Joseph, and seriously, what the hell went wrong?”

He had been looking sullen from the moment he walked in.  Now, it seemed he’d heard enough.  He stood, almost knocking the chair over.

“I don’t need a lecture from a broken old man.”

“Perhaps not.  But if you want a piece of the inheritance, the price is to sit down, shut up, and take your medicine.”

He sat.

“I don’t have to.”  Lucinda, I think, just realised her ship was sailing, not coming in.

“That’s fine, Lucy.  If you walk out that door, you will be deported.  I spoke to Javier, and he wanted to know where you are.  Don’t give me a reason to tell him.”

She slumped back in her chair.  I had found out quite by accident when she used Joseph as a reference, and it had been forwarded to me by mistake, throwing up a different surname.  Her married name, back in the Philippines.  A marriage that had not ended in death, divorce or annulment.

“What’s that about?”  Joseph looked understandably angry.

He didn’t know she was trying to get members of her family into the country using his name.

“Nothing.  We’ll talk later.”

It was exhausting talking to Joseph.  The three boys had been watching and wanted to be anywhere but this room.

“I’ll make this short.  When you leave here, you go to Mr Winter.  You’ve had dealings with him so you know who he is and where he is.  Do it soon.

“There, you will be given a document to sign.  It advises that your house mortgage will be paid out, on the condition that if you break any of the conditions stated, the house becomes the property of your brother or sister.  There is no discussion on this.  You have a long history of saying one thing and doing something else.  Now you have to stick to your word.

“You will also have the balance of your main credit card paid in full, on condition that you cancel it.  That is the balance as of midday today. 

“Any others you open will be your problem.  I suggest you keep away from credit.  You will also sign a document that says you have no further claim on my estate.  I strongly advise you to accept the terms.  It’s the best you’re going to get.”

“What about the boys?”

“They’re your responsibility, not mine.”

“So the girls get something, and they get nothing.”

“Think about what you did with their education and coming-of-age funds, Joseph. That was their inheritance.  What they would have got is the repayment of what they didn’t deserve.”

“That’s not fair.”  Albert, the oldest, finally spoke.

I think that was the first time in five years he’d said a word to me.

“You need to take that up with your father.  Expectation is a bitch, Albert, and you should have followed in Maisie’s footsteps.  Make the most of what you have and rely only on your own recognisance.  The same goes for the other two.

“Now I’m done.  You don’t need to come back if you don’t want to.  Like I said, Joseph.  If you don’t accept the deal before I die, you get nothing.”

…

Winters had told me that I could set up all the disbursements before I died, so long as there was someone to manage them. 

Harry had agreed to be that person.  He had no qualms with teaching Joseph lessons in financial management, though he did say he didn’t like the idea of taking his house if he didn’t accept what I thought were reasonable terms.

Matilda, Harry’s wife, didn’t think she would go with the other women to Italy, but would visit.  She had young children who would be difficult to separate from.

Winters finally reported that Joseph had accepted the deal, but that was probably because alumina had been sent home; he had reported her himself.  But he was still unaware of the trip his girls were about to make.

Margaret had finally set up a family group chat on Facebook and got all the girls to join, and then told them of the quest she and the others were to go on.  It got complete acceptance, and plans were well in advance when Margaret and Elsie came to see me.

It was time.

Old age and a heavy tiredness came over me that morning, and it was difficult to breathe.  I had asked them not to come; I didn’t want them to see me as this old, worn-out husk of what I used to be.

Father Bernard had dropped in mid-morning and knew that the end was near.  He was ready, the accoutrements of death with him.

The girls came in with brave faces, but those facades soon broke into tears.  There were no words, and even if there were, I was too tired to say them.

They told me of their plans, that it was next month, and they were so looking towards to their adventure.  Everyone was reading the diary, getting acquainted with the places and events.  All were gaining an appreciation for the mother and grandmother they had now, and wished they had known.

That was the problem with this lifetime.  Never enough time to do the little things, to get to know the one you love, get to do those things together, but there was never enough time.

I remember the doctor saying, “Say your goodbyes now.”

I think by this time I’d drift off into a place where, just on the periphery, I could see the love of my life, holding out her hand, urging me to come to her.

When I reached her, I took her hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze.  Finally, after a sigh of relief, we were together again. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026