The Most Precious Thing

It had been three weeks since Mum died. Two since her funeral.

My sister, Jane, and I had been putting off sorting through Mum’s house ever since our spat about who got her pear crumble recipe. Jane won, in the end. It was her daughter’s favourite, she used to live off the stuff. I’d have been the bad guy if I stole that from her. The last thing I wanted was to be hated by the few family members I had left.

Dad died when I was 4. Jane would have been 12. I couldn’t remember much about my father, but what I could recall, I looked back on fondly. A warm smile. The smell of freshly baked bread and tobacco. Kisses on my forehead.

Mum remarried ten years later. Her second husband, Fred, was pleasant enough. Slightly too handsy when he’d had a drink. No matter. He died three years before Mum did.

The worse part about Fred, however, was his son - who was very much alive and kicking. Percy was a short, greedy man in his late fifties. A selfish and slimy guy. Jane and I avoided him at all costs, especially when it came to Mum’s inheritance. Percy received far less than he was expecting from his father’s will. We knew it’d only be a matter of time before he began snooping around Mum’s arrangements.

That was another of the many reasons why my sister and I wanted to sort out the house. Time was of the essence, really.

As we stood outside our childhood home, Jane let out a sigh.

“It’s strange to think she isn’t in there anymore.”

It was strange to think that she wasn’t anywhere, anymore. The world had lost a bright, hard-working and fiercely loyal woman.

“Yeah, it is.”

It took Jane five minutes to go through the many keys Mum had left behind. The front door key was, of course, the final one she tried. We shared a look, then a hug, then entered the house.

Empty.

Stripped bare.

Not one single memory remained.

Fury forced me forward. I scoured every drawer I could find, every cupboard that was left. Not one thing. Not one piece left of my mum. Tears ran hot down my cheeks as Jane cursed behind me.

It didn’t take a detective to guess who was responsible.

We tried calling Percy 32 times. I counted. We had filled up his voicemail by call 18.

God, the cheek of that man. He’d taken her silverware, the ones we’d use to eat our pear crumble whilst Mum sang along to Shirley Bassey. He’d taken her collection of porcelain figurines, the ones Mum and I would create fantastical adventures for. He’d even taken the hand drawn cards Jane’s daughter had made for Mum, that I’d made for Mum. He’d tainted some of my most favourite memories with his greed.

There was some peace in knowing Mum would have been equally as furious with him, if she were alive. Though she was only 5 foot and as merry as the day was long, you didn’t want to get on her bad side. When I was at school, a girl who constantly pestered me one day threatened to ‘beat me to a pulp’. I told Mum. Instantly, she marched the both of us down to the girl’s address and just let her and her mother have it. The bully didn’t bother me again after that. It made me laugh, Mum was just as fiery as her auburn hair when she wanted to be.

I joined Jane in the garden, who was smoking a cigarette.

“She wouldn’t like that, you know.” I smiled softly.

“‘They are foul, foul and expensive things!’” We said simultaneously. That’s what Mum always used to tell Dad. Jane had spoken of his smoking habit. If he wasn’t smoking roll ups, he’d be sat in his favourite arm chair with a pipe. Mum’d scold him for it, but only in a playful way. Jane said I should always search for a love like our parents shared.

My heart ached for a hug from them both.

“I’m going to call the lawyers when I get home. Maybe the police.” Jane sighed.

“Not sure how much good it’ll do. God knows what he’s done with everything.” Sold it. Touched it. Ruined it.

“It’s better than doing nothing.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “He’s not allowed to take her from us.”

“No, he’s not.”

I looked up at the sky. Bright. Full of warmth. I smiled to myself.

We stood to leave, but I noticed something. Something wonderful.

The pear tree. The tree that grew ingredients for our favourite pudding, the tree my mother tended to every day was stood just as tall and just as strong as it did when we were children. Proof of Mum’s commitment and love.

Percy had left behind the most precious thing there was.

Not one pear was rotten. Not one branch was broken. The leaves were healthy and full.

Just like when we were young, I grabbed Jane’s hand and ran towards the tree giggling. We both plucked a pear from its branches, and took a bite. The juice trickled down my chin. The taste of home. The taste of family.

Memories hugged me tight, and that made me smile.