Making my will

Yesterday I made my will. Well I changed it.

I'd already made one less than two years ago  - just a few days before I had surgery. Back then, I was terrified that it might go wrong - it did! - and that I wouldn’t wake up – OK I got that bit wrong. I’d been worried that the children would be left with an administrative mess if I died intestate. Thankfully, that was not the case. Well I say, “thankfully” – it hasn’t felt that like that much since losing Al.

I’ve been aware that I’ve needed to change my will as Al is no longer a beneficiary so when a salesperson approached me in town last week, I agreed to make another.

It was easier in some ways this time. I wasn’t doing it with the fear that my death could be imminent. However, I’m now far more aware of my own mortality – and that of my girls. I worry far more on a day-to-day basis about their safety. I’m not as terrified as I was back then but I now have this never ending nagging at the back of my mind. What if? What if? That wasn’t there before.

At least this time I knew the drill so I was prepared for the questions and had the answers ready. At my youngest’s request, she gets my watch and the ring that was supposed to be for Al’s 18^th birthday. The one I always wear. My eldest will then get first choice up to the same monetary value. The rest will be split between the girls. Nice and easy. I included the fact that I want to be buried with Al – but then the girls know this already.

So much for being prepared and knowing the drill . . . Then he asked the question for which I was unprepared. I don’t know why. It isn’t as if it’s not my biggest fear. It isn’t as if it hasn’t occurred to me. "What if one of the girls dies before you?" A punch in the stomach would have hurt less. We agreed that the estate would be inherited by the remaining daughter.

“What if something happens and you all die?” It took only a few moments to think it through but the very fact that I had to consider it was agonising. I gave him the names of three more beneficiaries and our meeting ended.

Exhausted, I lay on the settee and cried before falling asleep. I woke about four hours later just in time to collect my daughter from school.

I mentioned it to her on the way home.

“Oh good Mum. At least it’s sorted now. Will I get your watch and Al’s ring? ... Good. Can we get the stuff for pancakes for tomorrow?”

I squashed the flash of irritation in favour of, "it’s good that she’s here. And OK, she’s 14 – it’s her job to be insensitive sometimes." For her it was a practical matter that was now in hand. For me it was a practical matter that was akin to torture.

We got the stuff for pancakes.