XI

Autumn is in the air with crisp mornings and glassy skies. Birches drop their gold into the mirror of the lake. I hope Gran got to enjoy the seasonal changes one last time, she would have liked that. She dies in the midst of my university exams, less than a year after a successful hip operation that divided the clan into those who wanted her to have a quality life, versus those who saw it as inheritance squandered. It is but a prelude to what will follow. With Gran gone, the family will drift apart, scatter over the globe; no one will suggest we congregate annually anymore. ‘What’s the point?’ my mum says, as if five decades and three siblings could be dismissed with a shrug. Our family has lost its glue. Petty fights mushroom and fester until they are impossible to heal.