Here’s something they don’t teach you as a kid: at some point in life, someone may ask, “What do you want to do with the body?” I wasn’t prepared for that question, and I had no answer. Finding my mother’s body isn’t the focus of today’s story, but her Will is. My mom passed away on a Monday, and I know this because I saw her the Sunday. On that day after I had left, she told the neighbors about the Will, and those same neighbors shared that information with the police and fire department.

Never in my life did I expect a fire chaplain to follow me around my parents’ house, telling me to look for a Will. I had no clue where to look, and I certainly wasn’t going to rifle through my mom’s things—she wasn’t really gone, was she? I walked up and down the stairs, repeatedly asking the chaplain her name, while apologizing because I couldn’t remember it. My aunt and uncle then spoke up, recalling that my mom had shared she wanted to be buried with her dad, which led me to decide on cremation—my mom thought embalming was strange.

Then came the next question: “Where do you want her body to go?” What? I had to choose a place? How did people even make decisions before phones? I named the only funeral home I knew, which turned out to be on a hillside overlooking the city where my mom grew up—a perfect spot. The Will was found days later, and that will began the outward unraveling of my father. For the record, the will stated my brother and I could get everything of hers, but specific items I was not supposed to inherit until I was married (come on mom).