My mom was my queen. Full stop.
When she had her stroke, I had begged an aunt in Philly to help me. I wanted her here and I told her it was serious. She kept telling me to "let her know". Well I "let her know" multiple times. Until I stopped calling. And then there was the closest aunt physically to her. She lived in the same building a few hundred feet away. I begged her to please knock on the door, while I got my things, left work and made it to the building. I also kept calling her when I was on my way. This aunt kept telling me "I can't - she'll never open the door for me.".
Huh?
I called the ambulance right before leaving work and rushed over. This aunt called to tell me she didn't need to come because the ambulance was there - she could see them through her window.
About the aunt who ordered my "watcher(s)". Well I didn't want her here. I felt like she antagonized my mother literally to death with secrets - some true some false. All the fu!ck sh!t, I hated. All the things I'd have leave work - many times- and hear about, make sense of and console.
When my mom died nine months later - I told my father's side. Confided in them about why I wouldn't tell my mom's side. Maybe this wasn't the best idea I'd ever had. I had gotten sick during Covid - but I had beef. But our beefs are resolved differently it seems.
My mom lives through my work, the things I built and created. My garden. My ideas. Her home I was buying was a shrine to her.
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