Father's Day Gift

As some of you know, we lost my dad to cancer last fall. He had a long and difficult battle. Though we knew it was coming, it didn't make it any easier. He was a pillar of strength in our family, a quiet, steady, reliable, military man!

Today, on Father’s Day, we paid off my mom’s house.

I pretty much manage my mom’s finances now, and earlier today we were on a video call while I was paying off her credit card and ordering a few things for the house. Nothing overly sentimental at first. Just practical stuff. Bills, payments, little household things.

We started talking about her mortgage burning party she wanted to have on Dad's Birthday, then it occurred to us that it might be time to make her last house payment.

So I checked.

And it was.

So we did.

There is something so symbolic about paying off that house on Father’s Day. It feels almost too meaningful to be random. I talk to Mom nearly everyday, it could have been earlier this week, or later next week, but it was today.

That house was such a sore spot for our family, and especially for my Dad. It was one of the reasons he fought so hard to stay alive as long as he did. He wanted to pay it down as much as possible. He wanted to leave my mom with as little burden as he could. Even while he was sick, even while his body was failing him, he was still thinking about her future.

As Dad got sicker, the house got worse too.

Not because no one cared. Not because anyone was lazy. But because how are you supposed to think about repairs, renovations, organizing, cleaning, and maintenance when you are running out of time with the love of your life? How do you care about a broken door or a cluttered room when the person you built your life with is slipping away in front of you?

No one blamed them. The house was tired. Heavy. Full of things that had been put down in the middle of survival and never picked back up.

There was a time a couple of years ago when I returned home for the first time in many many years and it was too hard to even go in for me. Knowing what it looked like when I lived there, and seeing the state it was in, was hard to see. It stirred up a lot of emotions, and forced me to face some of the things I buried. It was such a representation of where they were emotionally too.

It got easier, and I pushed through those feeling to be there more often to visit my Dad. Seeing him get sicker each time. When people started showing up nearing the end of his life, and to say their unofficial goodbyes, they poured into the house with love in the only way they knew how. They decluttered rooms. They left with garbage bags. They fixed the patio door. They cleaned up the back deck so he would have something nicer to look at when he was stuck in bed, they repaired the side deck. We all played different roles, and did different things, all important, all acts of service.

It was people saying, “I love you,” without always having to say the words.

And God, was he stubborn about it.

Friendly neighbors had reached out to offer to help mow, and do other lawn work. He hated needing help. He hated people fussing over him. He hated feeling like a burden. But I think, deep down, he knew. He knew that every bag carried out, every tool picked up, every room cleaned, every repair done, was love.

My Dad was really in denial. I think he really thought he was going to get better and be back on his feet. Despite knowing how aggressive this cancer was, he seemed to always think he had more time.

After he passed, there was another layer to all of this. I was in charge of handling all of his finances, filling out all of the end of life paperwork, and organizing all of his accounts. I realized there was an issue with his life insurance policy. I believe my dad died thinking that the majority of that money would go to my mother. That she would be taken care of. That the money he worked for, planned for, and held onto through his sickness would help her move forward without him.

But because of how things were set up, the money was split between his children instead. It came down to a misunderstanding of terms. Technically, legally, it became ours.

But emotionally, to me, it was never mine. It was always hers.

That money was meant to help my Mom. It was meant to protect her. It was meant to do the things my Dad wanted done. Pay off the house. Pay off the car. Fix the roof. Take care of the home he fought so hard to leave behind for her. And that is why I am so proud of my little brother and my younger sister. Because even in the middle of grief, confusion, paperwork, and technicalities, they understood what mattered. They understood what Dad would have wanted. They did the right thing.

My mom has thanked us many times, and I do appreciate it. I understand why she says it. I understand that, because of that error, she would not have been able to do all of this without us making that choice.

But in my heart, I never felt like I was giving her something of mine.

I felt like I was returning something that was always supposed to belong to her.

There was pain in that process too. Deep pain. Especially knowing how much work the house needed, and knowing that not all of my siblings made the same choice. That is a hard thing to carry. But I don’t want that to be the center of the story.

The center of the story is this: my Dad loved my Mom. My Mom loved my Dad. And some of us were able to help make sure that his final wishes were honoured in the ways we could control. And now my mom is working incredibly hard every single day to restore this house to its glory. A new roof. The driveway re-done. New toilets. Rooms gutted. Rooms cleaned. Corners brought back to life. One project after another. Truly, the list of what she has accomplished in that house is remarkable. It is coming back to life. And so is she, in a way.

Not in a way that erases the grief. Not in a way that makes any of this easy. But in the way people do after loss, letting light back in. That house has held so much. I think I can appreciate it more than my younger siblings because I was old enough to understand the hardships they had with the house over the years. It held my parents’ marriage. It held family birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesdays. It held sickness. It held fear. It held the weight of goodbye. It held my dad’s final chapter. And now it gets to hold something else. Mom said this next chapter will be filled with more memories. We will have more dinners. More projects. More art. More laughter that echoes through the rooms. More life running through the house.

It kind of reminds me of the movie Monster House, but like an alternate ending. One where the soft, gentle man who loved his wife passed first, and somehow his spirit transferred into the home. Not in a scary way. In a protective way. In a “take care of her for me” kind of way.

And now she is caring for the house.

Nurturing it. Restoring it. Bringing it back.

I think he would have loved to see everything she has done so far. I think he would be proud. I think he would be relieved.

And today, on Father’s Day, that house became fully hers.

An asset they worked so hard for, and finally paid off.