The thought of the world without him honestly made no difference. They travelled to the house neither had returned to in years with a thick veil of silence over the car. No one spoke for the fear of dredging up the past. A past they all wished to forget. A feebly small vine grew up the walls of the small brick house. Something that seemed to have been dying since the day each child was born. Life struggles to flourish here and it is the fault of no one living or dead.
Collectively the now grown children sigh. They know he isn't inside, they know he has died. Why else would they ever return if not to do what was proper, and partially to collect what they considered was rightfully theirs? The house looks smaller now as years have passed the black door less foreboding. They can't believe the house was never as big as it was in their memories.
The bell tolls through the house as they wait. Each child holds their breath, their fingers clutching at their coats or picking at their fingernails pulling skin from their hands. A man comes to the door and looks at them with abounding sympathy in his eyes. The sympathy is for the death in the family, not for the fear they felt. He didn't understand. People are meant to love those whom have died not wish that it had happened sooner.
Shadows gathered in the corners whispering sweet nothings to those who are patient enough to listen. Heads cocked they stood, still in the doorway, fingers tugging at their coats, listening for any familiar sound, something that would prove this was the same house.
A creak from upstairs echoed through the house and the shadows grow quiet as the children hold their breath. A small part of them still believes he will come around the corner; Tall, dark and silent. Instead a small woman appears, wrapped loosely in a shawl almost as if she wears it only from force of habit. A small breath escapes the children almost as quiet as the shadows; she looks older than their memories would have them believe. She looks frail and she looks sad.
For the first time the children doubt that this is good news.
The banister shakes as she makes her way down. Long, skeletal fingers clutch at the support afraid that this too will leave her. Without speaking she moves toward a closed door just to the right of the landing. The children wait until she opens the door then follow her inside.
The woman lowers herself down into an old arm chair so slowly as if she were afraid she would break. The children don't sit; they stand around the room eyes cold trying to be strong.
No sound leaves their lips as they stand steadfast in front of their mother, her breathing growing heavy in the silence. The children start as she clears her throat the sound unbearably loud in the think quiet of the room.
When she speaks her voice is frail. She sounds old and this realisation weighs on the hearts of the children. She seems barely to make a sound as her mouth moves slowly, forming each word with precision. The woman speaks of family and of formality. Thanking the children for travelling so far, plucking at their heart strings she says she missed them, that he missed them. Guilt creeps silently into their chests and nestles into their hearts as she continues to talk. They wish they felt sorry and they wish they felt remorse.
Smoke swirls up the chimney as the fire crackles and burns below. Their mother pauses briefly almost as if she is unsure of how to continue. The pain is clear in her eyes she knows they never loved him. A clocks chime echo's through the corridors, bouncing off the walls. It screams out five times; they have been here for an hour listening to her as she speaks of fonder times. Although they aren't truly sure how fond they ever were. She breathes silently and whispers that the attorney will be arriving the next morning at seven.
Creaking breaks her gaze as an older man tells them dinner will be ready shortly they should unpack and wash up for dinner. Each child ascends the stairs heading to a room they know hasn't changed in years.
