When the sympathy calls and ‘sorry to hear’ missives finally stopped, I sat alone in front of my computer at my cluttered desk. I was sent things after my sister Eileen’s heartbreaking death from metastatic breast cancer in 2019. Death Certificates. Instructions from the Estate Attorney. Bank statements. Surrogate’s Court decree. Papers. Email. Voice messages. Texts. Mostly stuff I expected, some I didn’t. All of them hated and unwanted; cruel, in a fashion—cold, wearing, and often infuriating.

Just weeks after my sister died, credit card offers, colorful retirement village adverts, holiday sale announcements, and discount coupons addressed to her began landing in my mailbox. Yes, they tracked Eileen from Central New Jersey, where she lived and died, to Florida. At first, I tried to stop it. I called the department stores, credit card companies, and even one Medicare plan. Please, I begged, it’s upsetting. I got one mumbled apology and, otherwise, sullen assurances the mailings would stop. But the steamroll of marketing in America today is larger than life. And, apparently, death.

What I wanted was another sappy, sparkly birthday card with Eileen’s loopy signature. I wanted to hear Eileen ranting about the latest political outrage. I wanted a photo of the lilac faux fur trimmed raincoat with matching hat she’d just finished sewing for her friend’s dog. To debate a black versus red leather handbag for another sister’s birthday gift. To hear about her most recent vintage Corning Ware Blue Cornflower find.

What I got was the inheritance tax return prepared by the estate attorney with decimal points in the wrong place. A phone message from a nationwide bank telling me they distributed a bequest to the wrong person. A W-9 tax form from the bank imprinted with my non-existent New Jersey address and a new last name: “XXXX XXXX and.” A text from the accountant telling me the estate attorney’s tax advice triggered a penalty. Calls from bank representatives seeking documents I’d previously hand-delivered. When I raised my voice in protest, they became quiet. Occasionally, I got disconnected.

Silence, but not the kind I wanted.

Next, I tackled the charities. I had warned Eileen about leaving money to organizations, large or small, that lacked sound financial management—deliberate or otherwise.

My sister wasn’t wealthy, but she’d left small gifts to non-profits—mostly animal rescues—almost all local to her New Jersey home. Thirteen charities. Thirteen pay-on-death beneficiaries.

I spoke to non-profit executive directors who regularly solicited the world for donations, but couldn’t manage the minimal paperwork required to withdraw funds from my sister’s account. One animal rescue treasurer told me, “Oopsy,” she’d forgotten about the bequest. Another curiously told me he thought my sister’s donation was a scam because he received a bizarre phone call in a totally unrelated matter.

Angry and frustrated after months of phone calls to these charities, I threw the correspondence and bank statements in a drawer and slammed it shut.

Done.

So, the money sat. And sat. Some of it for years.

Then, I received a letter from a non-profit organization I didn’t immediately recall, written by someone I didn’t know. The return address listed a town in New Jersey. That made me uneasy.

The first paragraph introduced the all-volunteer cancer crisis intervention group.
Donations, the “Team” told me, went directly to women struggling with breast cancer.

In the second paragraph I learned about Gail, fired from her job because she needed time off for chemo. She had stage IIIC disease with twelve positive lymph nodes. Gail also cared for her thirty-six-year-old daughter who’d suffered a traumatic brain injury. My sister’s donation helped pay her mortgage and electric bill. I took a deep breath, mopped my face, and read on. Johanna, diagnosed at age thirty-three, was battling stage IV cancer; her husband was laid off. Eileen paid their rent for a month. And Debra’s car insurance so she could get to her doctors’ appointments, Lisa’s electric bill, and Rose’s co-pay balance.

The letter closed by saying that “Eileen is smiling down from heaven proud of what her help has done.”

What I Wanted.

What I Needed.

Joan Sosin lives, learns, and writes in Northeast Florida. Her flash/micro essays have appeared in The Sun, Bending Genres, and Five Minutes. Her poetry has appeared in Shot Glass Journal. Joan is enrolled in University of North Florida’s program, Learning for a Lifetime, and has adopted that moniker as her personal goal.