The Estate, The Blame, and The Burden I Had to Set Down
Boy do I have beef with so many of our systems in the United States, but the legal system perplexes me the most at times.
Continuing on about inheritance and houses from my last blog, today I want to share about the fiasco that was my father’s estate.
My father tried to leave me his house, sort of.
His home and thus estate were in New York. I’m in Maryland.
I was supposed to end up with the right to manage his accounts, paperwork, belongings, etc so I could split things evenly between his wife and daughters.
But the problem was, he never made his will legal.
When my dad’s cancer diagnosis became terminal, I’d already been estranged from him for nearly ten years. Still—I immediately drove to New York to help my sister move out and prepare for a new life.
While I was there, I tried to help my father establish a legal will.
I helped him write it with software and had it printed for him. He was of right mind—perhaps better than I’d ever seen him.
He was thrilled to no longer be working and to be collecting disability payments. He’d just gotten a new rental car and was enjoying his freedom riding around whenever he wanted. Thanks to the extra money, he was eating takeout more than ever—Red Lobster on the regular, included. This was fancy living for my dad.
So we talked over his wishes and I reflected them all in the various sections of the will. We noted specific items my sister wanted to inherit. I ultimately wanted nothing physical, but I agreed to manage things because my sister and step-mother’s disabilities made it much harder for them to do it than me.
All Dad needed to do after I left the state was sign and file his will with the state to make it legal.
In the three months that followed before his steep decline, he did not file the paperwork.
When we realized his condition was deteriorating rapidly and he wound up in the hospital again, I got involved once more at the request of my family to try and ensure the estate would be handled. However, by then my step-mom had made some weird moves with his bank account that raised questions in the coming days.
Hospital staff attempted to have him sign his will with witnesses. However, something was done wrong with the paperwork (and I wasn’t there to see this as I was in Maryland).
So, after his death, when I drove to New York to try and begin the process to handle the estate, I was immediately stonewalled.
The will my step-mother handed to me wasn’t legal, she was now on the bank account, and the state needed further verification that medical staff witnessed him sign it while he was of sound mind at the time.
For some reason, they refused.
Jumping Through Hoops
Extending my stay in New York a little longer, I tried everything while my step-mother demanded I figure out how to make sure she could keep the house, and secure her payout from his retirement system.
Meanwhile, I tried to get those two hospital staff members to sign off officially on witnessing his will. They called back and said no, they weren’t doing it.
I believe it comes down to the fact that they didn’t want to deal with extra paperwork, potential legal liability, and the hassle of getting something notarized when it wouldn’t be a task they were paid for.
Because he failed to make his will legal earlier, and the strange move by his wife, I couldn’t sell his house or manage anything after his death.
Most everyone in the family (including my step-mother) was expecting me to solve the legality issues and get them their money or property.
I tried. I tried. I tried for months.
My stress levels were causing my hair to fall out, and my mental health plummeted. My physical health started to slip more, too, with my recent fibromyalgia diagnoses and symptoms worsening.
I began to realize the improper handling of the estate wasn’t really on me.
My dad was the one who missed the window to file the will.
I went out of my way to help him prepare it. In fact, I’d given him all the steps and done a majority of the leg work for him aside from taking it somewhere to be filed. And TRUST me when I say he loved driving around in his rental car for several more months, so it was not a matter of him being unable to go where he needed to go until it was.
There was nothing I could do to go back in time and FORCE him to go get it signed.
And my step-mother was the one who oversaw the rushed signing at the hospital, who could have potentially checked over the documents or ensured they were seen as sound by the state. Instead she left it in a folder for me to handle whenever I came up to handle it.
Except, my father didn’t give me the right to handle his affairs properly—even though he requested I do it. My step-mother pushed him to put her name on a bank account just before he was hospitalized, which had a ripple effect of locking me out from being able to manage things in the state’s eyes too.
I still wonder—Why?
Why didn’t he file it in those three months he was still well?
Was he too busy joyriding to think of the future?
Too lost in the moment?
Was he thinking I’d just figure out how to handle it?
Was his wife pushing him to do something different?
Was he ashamed of the idea that we’d finally see he’d been lying about our inheritance, so he tried to ensure we’d not be able to access parts of it?
I’ll never know.
I only know the result.
I had a diminished ability to meet his wishes. I was able to get my step-mother in touch with the retirement company to try and sort that out, and my sister and I had access to some deferred pay through the state.
But all the other stuff? The house? Any other accounts to pay his affairs? I could never get access to any of it.
Because of the lack of proper paperwork, I essentially had to give rights to the State of New York. The family home (albeit in a state of terrible repair) ended up back in the possession of the mortgage company when all was said and done. And no one else ever tried to help me figure things out while hounding me to set it all straight.
As a family of people with various mental health diagnoses, physical disabilities, a history of cancer, many of whom grew up in poverty and never left it, the system wasn’t designed to support us, either.
Yet—certain family members of mine still blame me for it all.
The result of that?
I felt betrayed, forgotten, invisible. My health faltered until I drew big boundaries and had to stop talking to certain family members altogether.
I did my best and was accused of failing my father and family. For not doing it all right. For not continuing to fight for their right to stuff and money when they were unwilling to fight for it themselves.
The Goddess Who Accepted a Penance She Didn’t Deserve
During the Moon of Purification, Jhenah Telyndru’s The Mythic Moons of Avalon invited to examine the story of the Goddess Rhiannon from the Mabinogi (a collection of the earliest Welsh stories).
Rhiannon enters into marriage and is soon betrayed by those who are supposed to care for her. When her newborn son disappears, her nurses—acting in fear to protect themselves—smear her with blood and accuse her of killing her own child.
Her nurses, the people meant to support her, turn on her to save themselves from being blamed.
Rhiannon accepts a penance she doesn’t deserve, carrying visitors on her back like a horse for years.
This punishment was not fair or just, nor deserved. But she endured it anyway, persevering until her son was finally found and returned to her.
This story invites us to look at what we’ve been carrying that was never ours. The systems that fail us while trying to scapegoat us. The survival mentality teaches us to protect our interests first, even when it hurts someone else.
I had no desire to manage my father’s estate, but I agreed when no one else stepped up—and when he played the eldest daughter card.
But all the while? I wanted support, too. I didn’t want to do it all alone. I asked. I tried to express how much pressure I was under. How in over my head I was when no one prepared me for this and it was thrust in my lap.
In the US, I was raised on a bootstraps mentality that forces individuals to make it on their own and not expect any outside force to help. Our society values logic over emotion, knowledge over wisdom, judgment over empathy, and individuality over collective consciousness—all without balance.
It also sells narratives like that of the eldest daughter, placing responsibility on girls simply for being born first into a family. This story can push expectations and obligations on people they never actually agreed to.
Where are you carrying a burden that isn’t actually yours, but some old voice passed down through generations? Where are you carrying hurt from a betrayal and still paying the penance for someone else’s actions?
How can you purify it and let it all go?
The Mirror in the Moon of Purification
My patterns of overwork are mirrored in my late father’s.
He worked himself to exhaustion chasing sports cars he could never afford, buying things to fill the void, always promising that success was just around the corner.
My dad rarely asked for help from others, hiding his pain by escaping to his room to sneak his addictions.
His career, being a caretaker, and working long hours to try and make it to the next paycheck is what I believe ultimately led to his cancer diagnosis.
When I tell you my last coherent, in-person, one-on-one conversation with my father was while he drove that rental car around feeling high on life, I mean it. He was so relaxed. He smiled. Told me how great it was to not have to go into work anymore. Finally, he was getting to spend time doing whatever he wanted to do. His wife could no longer begrudge him that when his life was on a timeline.
Then, he got soft—vulnerable—trying to keep focus on the road. His eyes teared up when he realized soon he wouldn’t be able to watch after my sister and ensure she did alright. I promised I’d keep being the big sister I am.
And still, these patterns cling!
Here, I’ve been working myself to exhaustion cleaning this house, pushing through pain, telling myself it’ll all be worth it when the house sells and we can finally get ahead of debt and physical burnout. But there is currently very little rest in this. This is a sustained, ongoing effort to get Park House ready to sell.
I want to be able to do more, even when my body is screaming at me to stop. And damn, girl—that’s ableism right there.
I know what I’m currently capable of, and I wish for more. But wanting it doesn’t change the reality of my joints aching, my energy vanishing, and my body crying “No more!”
The same energy that makes me believe I “should” be able to push through physical pain is the same energy that kept my father working himself to death, promising riches that never came.
It’s internalized capitalism. Internalized ableism. The belief that if we just work hard enough, sacrifice enough of ourselves, we’ll finally be worthy of rest.
What if my father had been able to say, “I want to have space to live my life” when he wasn’t already sick?
What if I could say, “My body needs rest, and that’s not a moral failing”?
During the Moon of Purification, I was asked: What impossible standards am I holding myself to? What have I inherited that was never mine to carry?
I don’t have all the answers yet.
I’m still learning to recognize the inheritance I’m carrying—the $23,000 that helped secure Park House, and the overwork, the struggle to ask for help, and all the impossible standards that came with striving to live out the American dream.
So, as you might be by now—this work of purification isn’t just about cleaning the house. It’s about recognizing I’ve continued to cling on to the image of a life my father wanted for me. A dream I was told to share. It’s realizing the ways, four years after his death, I’m still unpacking the patterns he passed on to me.
How much suffering could be avoided if each of us stood in our authenticity and spoke our truth?
But how do we find the wisdom to know what’s ours and what isn’t?
It certainly takes discernment and a willingness to explore our boundaries. I’m so much farther than where I once was. Despite once feeling deeply betrayed by members of my family, I’m now grateful for all the lessons I’ve learned along the way.
In the end, attempting to handle my father’s estate and getting the Park House were both irreplaceable lessons in standing in my boundaries and finding the edge of when enough is enough. That has a lifetime worth of value I get to keep cashing in on.
As for Park House and the $23,000 inheritance that went into trying to make it a long term home?
I’m ready to let it all go to break free into the life I want to live—now.
Have you inherited anything you’re ready to let go of?
All my love,
Safrianna Lughna the Eldest Daughter
This is part 4 of a 6-part series on the Moon of Purification. In the next post, I’ll share about the Oldest Animals of Lore.
Carrying Burdens That Were Never Yours?
If you’ve been playing the role of family caretaker, eldest daughter, or the one who “should” handle everything—only to be blamed when things don’t work out—this work is for you.
BETWEEN THE VEILS: 8 Days of Revolutionary Awakening
This Samhain, join me and Dr. Melissa Bird to explore what you’ve been carrying that isn’t yours.
Through daily transmissions, rituals, and a live Samhain ceremony, we’ll help you set down the penance you don’t deserve and reconnect with your revolutionary spirit.
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