According To A Source Close To The Family
by
David Jeffery

I’ve been in this position before, just sitting here, staring out a window.  It’s not as though there’s anything to see outside, it’s just one of those things you do.  Supposed to help you concentrate. 
	I don’t think it works.
	As the saying goes, ‘it could always be worse.’  And that inherently true; things could always be worse.  I could be staring out the window, waiting for the sun to rise over a new set of gallows.  
	I’m not though.
	I’m just staring out a window, looking at pink daisies blowing in the breeze.  I think they’re pink daisies, though I wouldn’t swear to it.  I’m not very good with flowers.  They are pink; that I do know.  
	I never called my sister for her birthday.  That’s not why I’m staring; it’s just something I thought of while staring.  I never called my sister for her birthday.  Telling the truth, as I’m always supposed to do, I haven’t called my sister for five years.  It might be more than that.  Five will do.  I can’t be bothered working it out.  
	I haven’t spoken to her since a year after mum died.  She started it.  I sent her a present for her birthday and she sent it back, ‘Return to Sender.’  Kind of got the message with that.  The hardest thing is I don’t know what happened.  One week she came down for dinner with me and Maddy; the next week, she’s not answering her phone.  
	She’s alright.  Not in hospital, or dead or anything.  Dad still speaks to her.  Not often, but still.  Me and Maddy though?  Cut off.  Kinda strange.  
	Look, it might be the house.  But, I mean, they had two years to buy the house.  ‘They?’  Yeah, my brother.  He’s not talking either.  I think he might have started the whole thing actually.  Dad said he phoned him one night, out of the blue, drunk as a lord, abusing him about selling the house to us.  Didn’t call us.  Hasn’t even talked to us.  
	I mean, the house is nothing special.  Just a house.  Yes, we all grew up in it but, come on; if you really, really loved it like you say you do, why not buy it when the offer is there?  Why not make an offer?  Dad was going to sell it sometime.  What did you expect; that he’d hang onto it until he died?  He needs the money.  You don’t.  
	So we bought the house.  Bought it for cheap too.  Dad only charged us the council value.  He was happy, we were happy.  Me and Maddy, we came and talked to you about it.  We tried to talk to you about it.  You didn’t want to know.  We gave you specifics for fuck’s sake.  Now you’re saying you knew nothing about it?  Come on!  Don’t ignore a voice then claim ignorance.  You knew.  You always knew.
	But hey, it’s much easier to paint us as the villains.  Kind of what I’m doing now.  Well, if you won’t give me your side of the story, then what do you expect?  Did the house really mean that much to you?  Or is it just the money you think you’re missing out on?  We didn’t sell it for much.  Certainly not enough to cut off all communication.  You both have a house, we didn’t.  Now we do.  Dad’s happy; we’re happy; you’re not.  Get over it.  It’s just a house, not a place of ‘happy memories.’  Memories are in your head.  You don’t need some place to cement them.  Things change; grow up.  

	What else can I say – sorry for moving on with my life?  Sorry for not letting mum’s death leave me stagnant?  Sorry for being able to work out my problems without having to ask mummy?  Fuck you.  Fuck you both.  
	Look, I’m not trying to ignore the pain that was felt.  It’s just that it’s ten years now.  Ten years since she went.  Which probably makes it closer to seven years that we haven’t spoken.  Isn’t it time to let go?  I think so and I’m sorry if you don’t.  Hell, I’m not sorry, I pity you.  I pity that you can’t find something in yourself that’s stronger than grief.  Especially when that grief is obviously a cover up for something else that you won’t tell us about.  Until you do though, what more can be said?  

	Staring out the window again.  Still haven’t called my sister for her birthday.  Haven’t called my brother for Christmas.  Don’t know whether I really care anymore.  Don’t even know whether I need to.