The Settlement

It wasn’t as though I didn’t need the money. I had university debts and a house loan to pay off, and 55k a year could only stretch so far. But it was hard to look at the cheque with anything other than disdain when it had come as a result of my mother’s death. I believe the term they used was a wrongful death settlement. To me, it was a get out of jail free card.

Upon asking my friends and family about it, the consensus they all seemed to come to was this: “It is better than nothing”.

This was not the answer I wanted to hear. I had never wanted my mother’s death to result in “something” rather than “nothing”. Now that she is gone, all I want is 5 more minutes with her arms around me, hugging in that comforting way only mothers can, whispering in my ear that everything was going to be okay, as my tears dampen her shirt. When we pull away she would laugh at me for getting snot all over her favourite shirt, before pulling me back in for an even tighter hug.

Yet the number of zeroes on the cheque in front of me only confirms what I already know. That even if I was able to trade all the money in the world to bring her back, I can’t. The reality is that I will only ever see her in the photos which hang in my apartment that we decorated together, after spending hours wandering through IKEA arguing about which couch would simultaneously light up the room and be comfortable enough to nap on.

One comfort could be that I still have a family to mourn with, to shoulder the pain which has suddenly taken over our existence. Though as I think back to the painful wails of my grandparents who had to experience their daughter leaving the world before them, and my aunts who tried to hold things together, but fail as the gap of the middle child would never be filled again just seemed to grow wider. Then there is my father, who I have never seen shed a tear, who has always been the joker in the family, stay quiet and unmoving, holding their wedding photo in his hand as he allows the tears to fall. I want to comfort him, but what words can I say.

With seemingly everything crashing down around me as my family struggled to come to terms with the idea of never seeing my mother again, I had to meet with the company representatives to put a price on my Mother’s death.

I had not gone alone. I had taken a lawyer with me, a woman who claimed herself to be a specialist in these matters. I let her do most of the talking, not wanting to be part of a discussion that put a monetary value on my mother. Instead, I focused on the little black book which belonged to one of the representatives. It was plain and simple, the pages slightly yellowed. One of the corners was stained black, as though ink had leaked through and the man had not taken enough care to notice before nearly a quarter of the notebook had been ruined.

So that was the type of person who was responsible for the lives of others.

When I walked out of the meeting, cheque in hand, the lawyer had told me it had been a success and that I would be receiving her bill within the next 2 to 4 business days.

I wondered what was worse, standing on the street as the shadow of the building responsible for my mother's death kept me in the dark, or walking home to my mourning family members. For a second, I wondered what would happen if I were to leave all the pain behind. The sound of speeding traffic surrounded me, ear-deafening horns and the screeching of tyres against the tarmac.

I stepped into the light.