49 Times People Were Not Expecting To Find Such Disturbing Things After A Loved One’s Death

One of the most memorable words from the great Denzel Washington was, “You’ll never see a U-Haul behind a hearse.” It’s a powerful, self-explanatory message that simply means we can’t take our material possessions with us when we pass on. 

In some cases, however, it’s much to the chagrin and shock of those left behind. A Quora thread from a while back revealed some of the most disturbing and heartbreaking items people found amongst their deceased loved one’s belongings. 

Many of these stories unveil a different side of the individual, for better or worse. These are quite lengthy but compelling reads, so you might be here for a while.

#1

I was an in-home caregiver for nearly eight years for Thelma. She was in her eighties, had southern roots and was quite a character.

She would have these terrible panic attacks. Since my home was only a few blocks away; she’d call me night or day and I soon became her ‘wahmbulance.’ She would even have the other caregivers call me when they were on duty and she had a panic attack (which pissed off a few other caregivers). I had figured out the best way to get her out of her panic was to ask her questions about her life. For eight years, she told me the sweetest, most joyful, funniest and also heartbreaking stories that were her life. I had grown very close to Thelma by the time she passed away.

She once asked me help her clean out clothing in her closets. She had been a seamstress and had three closets just bulging with beautiful clothing. The task quickly became impossible because every piece of clothing I’d bring out; she’d proceed to tell me entire story about what was happening in her life when she wore that item. If every piece of clothing had a story attached, it would take years to finish the closets. I loved her stories, didn’t want to hurt her feelings but also had to figure out a way to get the job done.

I finally decided to get three different boxes and told her she had 10 seconds to decide on each item of clothing. The boxes were marked as follows: (1) Donate, (2) Sell and (3) Beautiful Stories. We finally made progress and you can guess which box filled up the fastest.

Back to my original story; Thelma passed away one day after my birthday in 2014. Can you believe she promised me she would not die on my birthday because she didn’t want my birthday to have any sad moments associated? As I said, Thelma was a character… a sweet one.

Thelma’s estranged son Richard, asked me to help sort out her home after her passing. As we were going through Thelma’s belongings; I’d run across items that triggered some of her Beautiful Stories. I would relay the stories to Richard as we were sorting her property. Richard was amazed I knew almost everything about his mom’s life. Many of the stories he had never even heard.

During the sorting, he found a small shoebox in the back of a bottom drawer. Upon opening the box, he began shrieking, “Oh my god, oh my god, what the hell is this?” I quickly came over to see why he had reacted so crazy.

Inside the box was a morbid collection of about 20 teeth, clutches of different colored hair in little plastic bags, a bunch of what looked like fingernail clippings in plastic baggies, and a four-inch dried and twisted up stalk of something with a bow-clip attached in the middle.

It took me a moment, but then I remembered Thelma had told me the story about this box. It really hadn’t registered with me when she told me about the box originally; but, there it was. I must’ve thought she was joking; but, no, she wasn’t. Asking him to calm down, I told him I knew about the box and suggested we take it into the other room. We took it into the kitchen and sat down over a cup of tea... we really needed a break anyway.

We opened the box together and I began taking out the items one by one. Upon closer inspection, you could see these very tiny markings or labels on almost every item.

The teeth; they were Richard’s baby teeth and his brother Ron’s baby teeth (Ron passed away a year before Thelma) and apparently the tooth fairy had helped Thelma collect each one.

The bags of hair were all labeled differently; My sister Jane funeral 1947, Ron 1st haircut 1950, Rich 1st haircut 1953, Mom funeral 1962, Aunt Mabel funeral 1964, sister Dorothy Jane funeral 1965, etc.

The fingernail clippings were labeled similarly to the bags of hair but included clippings from her late husband, her father and her son Ron also.

Image credits: Becci-Winkler

#2

My mother had suffered with a bad heart for many years, after suffering two strokes when I was in my early teens. My wife and I were visiting a friend when my father called to tell me she’d had another and to go to the hospital. By the time we arrived, mum had died. My father, obviously, was distraught and in shock, so we wanted to take him home. However, he refused, wanting to return to his own house.

While my wife made him a cup of tea, I went upstairs to get his bed ready. I fluffed up my mother’s pillow (she had been in bed for a few days before passing), and found this:


Mum obviously knew she was about to die, so wrote us this last message:

To Bert and Paul,

If I should die tomorrow it would never mean goodbye, for I shall have left my heart with you, so don’t you ever cry.

This love that’s deep within me will reach you from the stars. You will feel it from the heavens and it will heal the scars.

I love you so, my dear ones, so try to do your best. Don’t turn away and close your mind, life’s portion is a test.

Mum

She died many years ago and this is the first time I’ve shared this with anyone other than my late father (he died a few years later) and wife. I have no idea whether she wrote this herself or remembered it from something she had read many years ago, but it remains precious to me. Bugger me, I do believe there are tears in these jaded old eyes of mine!

Never take those around you for granted. Our time here is much shorter than we realise.

Image credits: Paul-M-Calvert

#3

When I was at university back in the mid 1980s, I was dating this beautiful, blonde, woman whom I’ll call “Karla.”

She was attractive, quite smart, athletic, and I believed that at that time we were very much in love.

We dated for almost two years, and I had given her an engagement ring, which she had accepted. I had met her family, and she mine. We all got along very well, and I spent many weekends at her family’s home in an upscale city just outside of St. Louis.

Halfway through our Senior year, we had gone to her house for Christmas. They really outdid themselves on the Christmas decorations, and I was happy to be spending the holiday there. My parents had gone to Aruba, and her parents always treated me like visiting royalty. I always enjoyed my visits there.

Two days before the holiday it had begin snowing heavily, and Karla’s father, a Doctor, was on his way home through the worsening snow. Somewhere on the Interstate, just before his exit, he was k**led in an horrific accident. I truly liked the man, and I was probably as distraught as were Karla and her family.

I stayed for a day, and then, wanting to give them some privacy to grieve, drove back to my parents’ house, and spent Christmas with a couple of cousins and my Aunt and Uncle. Karla and I spoke almost non-stop over the break, and I went back for the funeral. It was as bad as you could imagine. Her sister, and Mother were withdrawn, and the atmosphere of sadness was palpable. Their father and husband was dead, and it could be no better. It was a very dark time.

Karla stayed at home for the first few weeks of the semester, and then came back to school. I supported her emotionally, and our relationship actually strengthened. She began to pass through her grieving, and life somewhat went back to normal.

Around the beginning of spring break, her Mother asked if Karla and I could go through her Father’s effects, and begin packing them up. She had planned to sell the house as without his income, she couldn’t afford to keep it. She also couldn’t bring herself to enter his study. There was life insurance, and I really believe she just wanted to live in a place where his “ghost” would not be there in everything she saw. They had been married for over thirty years, and I understand that feeling.

His office was neat and well-ordered, and for the first days, we sorted among the papers and books, putting the important papers where they could be easily found and boxing up the lesser documents. Books were boxed up, mementos and accent pieces packaged for the move as well. Oddly, I noticed that, although he had pictures of his wife and two daughters, there were no pictures of him as a younger man, or of his parents. Unusual, but not remarkable. I asked Karla, and she simply stated that he didn’t talk about his youth or his family. Not altogether unheard of, and her explanation put it out of my mind.

In the back of the closet was an old Mosler safe. One of the kinds you see in the movies with the ornate decorations on the front. An antique, but still, in excellent shape and functional. We stood looking at it for a few minutes, and I had no idea how to open it.

Karla walked over to his desk and removed a piece of paper that had been taped to the bottom of one drawer. She told me that her Father had told her never to open the safe, and only use the combination in the event of an emergency.

It took us several tries to open the safe, but we finally succeeded.

What was inside, took me, and Karla, by complete surprise.

Folded neatly inside, on top of a shelf, was the uniform of what we later found out was a Major in the SS. The tunic, cover, slacks, medals and insignia looked like they had been kept clean and maintained. It looked like it had been freshly dry-cleaned and was ready to wear.

Under the shelf were several drawers, and in each one were his Ausweis, SS identity cards, daggers, commissions, promotion to the SS Medical Corps, and letters from superior officers; one was even signed by whom we later learned was Heinrich Himmler. There were also a significant quantity of Gold Krugerrands which he had obviously put aside for an emergency.

The man who would have been my father-in-law was an SS Doctor who, I now believe, had worked under Mengele at one of the camps. In retrospect, it is still incomprehensible that he could have kept this a secret from his daughters, and presumably his wife. It also seemed logical. My own father was in the Navy during WWII, and never spoke a word about his service.

With the exception of the gold, we put all of the contents of the safe into a footlocker, and she locked it up with a padlock. I don’t believe she ever told her Mother or sister about what we found except for the coins. She also swore me to secrecy.

I know it shouldn’t have, but it gradually soured our relationship. She knew that I possessed terrible information about her family, and felt that I would always harbor ill feelings toward her for what her father was. I was numbed by what we found, but couldn’t hold her responsible for his actions.

Unfortunately, our relationship slowly fell apart. She and I had gotten along so well. We were in love, and had planned on a life and a family of our own. As the poem goes, it ended not with a bang, but a whimper, and less than six months later, she gave me back the ring, and we never spoke again. We both graduated, received our degrees, and went our separate ways.

With the advent of the internet, I learned, a few years ago, that her father had been on the “wanted list” of the Wiesenthal Center. For several months I mulled over whether I should report this to them, but by that time, he had been dead over thirty years and I could not see any reason to disturb his family with reporting this.

It still runs through my mind, thirty-five years later.

Image credits: Patrick-Parrish-7

#4

My father joined the Navy in 1942 at the age of 17 and went to war on diesel submarines in the South Pacific. After WW2, he was assigned to duty in Japan as part of the occupational forces. There he met a local Japanese girl he wanted to marry, but it was prohibited to do so until the early ’50s when President Truman allowed it. Dad went back to Japan and married the girl he met during the occupation of Japan.

Dad was also involved in the atomic bomb tests in the South Pacific islands of Bikini Atoll in “Operation Crossroads.” Dad passed away in 1998, from lung cancer, and I submitted a claim to VA for a service-connected death and it was approved in record time. My mother lived until 2015. After mom passed away, my sister and I took our time to clean out our parents’ home. I stumbled on photos of my father with a young female child. There was nothing else associated with the picture. In my mother’s possessions were letters written in Japanese that we thought were from family members. During one trip to the house, there was a letter from Japan in the mail box. My sister decided to get the letter interpreted. To our surprise, the letter was from a Japanese woman who claims to be the daughter of my mother and father that he had during the occupation of Japan. The Japanese woman wanted to know why her mother hasn’t written her or responded to her phone calls. It was after this revelation that we decided to get all the letters mother had saved and get them interpreted. One of the letters had an email address so I used an app called Google Translate and wrote a letter to the Japanese woman. I learned that my mother and father had a child during the occupation of Japan in the late 1940s. This woman whose name was Terri had pictures to prove that she was a daughter of my parents. To my horror, Terri said our parents abandoned her because she lived with our mother until age 7 when dad returned to Japan and married our mother and brought her back to the USA. I learned that Terri was put up for adoption and the names of the birth parents were falsified thereby making it impossible for my parents to bring Terri back to the USA. Since my father was a career Navy Master Chief Petty Officer, he did not want the love child to hurt his career since fraternization during the occupation of Japan would result in a court martial. So, my parents made the decision not to adopt their real daughter and bring her back to the USA.

In my many Google Translate emails to Terri, I learned that our mother was one of six (6) children. Of the 6, two were female, mom and Terri (if Terri is her daughter, she can’t be her sister as well) and four (4) were boys who I was told were soldiers in the Japanese Imperial Army and fought Americans in the South Pacific and all were killed. I learned that my mother was disowned by her family for marrying an America military man when her brothers died fighting Americans. I continue to write Terri and we are trying to organize a reunion but haven’t decided on when or where.

I would have never imagined that my parents had a love child while dad was involved in the occupation of Japan but short of a DNA test, I am convinced that Terri is my blood sister. To this day, my sister and I are amazed that our parents never told us that they had a daughter and abandoned her in Japan after WW2. I think that this story would make for a good book. This is something I have been wrestling with so I can get the money to have a reunion with my long-lost sister in Japan. This is a true story.

Image credits: It-s-Me-Terry-T

#5

My Mom recently passed away suddenly, she had seen me off to a doctor's appointment 2 hours prior, and we had planned to have dinner on the large deck outside of her back door. It was one place she was comfortable and always enjoyed sitting outside to eat, she had been in the hospital a few times last year and for some reason, developed severe claustrophobia. We hadn't seen each other more than 10 times last year alone, even though we lived right next door. While Mom was in the hospital I had been in and out of hospitals and nursing homes for rehabilitation. Neither of us could walk very well at this point, so we weren't able to visit each other, until we were both home and spent several hours together sitting on the porch.

Within 20 minutes after coming home and having dinner made, my husband went over to tell my Mom dinner was ready, it was already too late. He ran back over to get me and try to help, but nothing could be done at this point, I sat down on the floor with her until the ambulance came. Thats one night I'll never forget for as long as I live.

While cleaning her home afterwards, there were too many notes to count, written in her own handwriting asking God to please let her go home. She had written that she wanted to be with my Dad and her body was in too much pain to go on another day. The notes, letters and poems were written over the course of years, although there were no dates, the writing gave it away. Some were tear-stained and found in various areas of her home. My Mom was and always will be the strongest woman I've ever had the honor of knowing, she never let on, not even once the thoughts that were going through her mind. She was our rock and gave us strength when needed, she'll always remembered that way, by everyone who knew her. A few years ago she made a bucket list, it was nearly complete, I think the night God took her home to be with my Dad, it was.

Thank you for letting me share my thoughts.. Sorry if there are spelling errors or the grammar isn't correct. I'm very disabled, in excruciating pain but trying my best, to get strong enough to walk a few steps on my own. Thanks for understanding.

Image credits: Shirl-Ginley-Morton

#6

My uncle Don was an odd guy. It wasn’t until my teen years that I really understood that. When I was younger, he was friendly to me, so that was enough. He was a loner, particular, moody, intense, especially after he divorced and separated from his wife. No kids.

My uncle’s mother, (my grandmother), was tough by many standards both flattering and not. She was Catholic, with a big crush on the priest of the local church, Father Kramis. During Don’s growing up, she was, as my dad called it, “a barmaid”. A title chosen specifically for its implications. Clients became husbands. Husbands chosen from the Petri dish of a low-end bar. She was married three times. It was something she was bad at, and her choices in men got worse over time. My uncle’s father was the second, after my father’s. A violent drunk, I heard. Life for Don growing up held a lot of misery.

At maybe 15 years old, Don was sent to the seminary in Kenmore Washington. For his mother, ”priest” was the highest honor and greatest social standing one could attain. No doubt, a play on her part to both make him a better child than his birth order or genetics established but also to get out of the burden of his care. She was no cook, no housekeeper, he probably felt lucky if she gave him any positive attention at all.

So jump forward a few decades to my uncle, a trucking mechanic, living alone in the Industrial District, South of Downtown Seattle. An area a little like a truck stop, although more sprawling, with a house or two sprinkled in as legacies. It was an oddly promiscuous area. Eerily quiet late, yet with random singular people as if aliens on a poignantly desolate background. Devoid of trees, cars, open businesses, with wide open streets for long haul trucks to easily navigate. At one point, the Green River killer had his heyday with prostitutes near here.

Don had been an alcoholic for years, but AA helped him find sobriety. He was a private guy, with a lot of idiosyncrasies. He was passionate about music and keeping his tools in order, but a wreck of a guy in many indescribable ways, looking back on it now.

When I was young, I never really gave all this a second thought, just accepted it as his nature, less curious to explore the whys and why-nots. My father and uncle, step brothers, were at turns friendly and estranged, year to year. My father would occasionally stop by to visit, but Don would never let my dad in. One time dad got a peek into the interior and it was a hoarders glory, piled high to the ceiling, so he knew it wasn’t personal.

Years pass. My uncle, when he was maybe in his late 50’s, was swindled out of his life’s savings. He loaned his long-term, "like-family" boss and his wife $20K to help them float heir truck repair shop. Come to find the money was more like a nest egg for their future. Soon after, they ran off, leaving him broken and unemployed.

It was a lousy life filled with sadness, failure, misplaced loyalty, an inability to nurture relationships. Eventually it became obvious he was sick with something terminal, we didn't know what because he never saw a doctor in his adult life. So with much sadness, and no way to reach him physically or emotionally, he died facedown in the dirty shag carpet hallway of his apartment. My dad received a call from someone we didn’t know two or three days after the fact.

This story has two punch lines.

When my parents went to clean out his home, among the heaps and mounds of a rotten life were dozens and dozens of high heeled shoes, both well- and never-worn, women’s clothing, size XL, and a sturdy noose. It was a revelation that brought clarity to a lot of things: the solitude, the neighborhood, the sadness. I recall my parents both deeply rattled from the experience. Like someone might feel after watching a dog being hit by a car, traumatized, yet removed and either unable or unwilling to describe it in greater detail.

Something that had occurred to me at various points in my adult understanding of

Image credits: Pam-Patterson-11

#7

Growing up, I had an uncle who was the stereotypical guy who lives with his mom until she dies. He was a computer guy back in the early 90s, and lived on a couch during the day, and in bed at night. Never went anywhere, you know the type.

When I was around 10 years old, I stayed with my grandma while my mom went to the hospital to have my baby brother. I remember this uncle trying to take my clothes off in the middle of the night, but I fought against it, pretending to be sleeping. The next morning, I told my sister, who told my mom. My mother got super angry with me, and told me that he was just trying to make me comfortable, and the “schools are trying to make kids think uncles are perverts.” I was not to speak of it again.

Fast forward 30 years. Said uncle had a massive grand Mal seizure, and went into hospice. My 18 year old son and I were helping to clear out his house, when my son brought a picture to me from my uncle's bedroom. It was a picture of a little girl that my uncle had printed off of his computer. She wasn't wearing clothes, and looked terrified. I had found a school picture of the same girl in his livingroom. He died before any charges could be brought.

Every day, I live with the knowledge that I could have prevented this girl from her fate if I had just told someone other than my mom about him. I am sorry, little one! I wish I could go back and change it!

Image credits: Erin-Paxton-4

#8

My father passed away about 11 years ago. He spent 8 years in the Special Forces, a soldier in Vietnam. I had heard several stories from him. We were more friends that a father/son team. He was DEEPLY troubled. Severe alcoholic, raging pot head. A good man. Gentle, kind and smart, but the war, and pre-existing mental issues (depression, probably bipolar) destroyed him. He became ill one day, and literally, 1 day later he died. 54 years old. No surprise—case of beer a day, heavy cig smoker… In any case, I heard, I thought, his stories from the war. Anything I asked, he seemed to answer honestly. When he passed away, I was going through his few possessions. A large collection of pulp fiction (Doc Savage paper backs…), a lot of movies on VHS, other books. A couple guitars. Some clothes. Then, in the back of the closet, I found a box with some very old things in it. Among them, a photo album. In the album, their were extremely disturbing and graphic pictures from the war. I’m not kidding—shocking images, heads blown open, bodies charred with napalm. People posing next to scenes of utter devastation and death. Also, their were dozens of photos of a very attractive, young Asian girl (I say girl—my dad would have been maybe 19—this person couldn’t have been older than that). I mean, dozens of photos. Photos of them together, photos of her alone. Who was this girl? I had heard the stories of hitting brothels (very common in war time), and perhaps this person was simple that—a p********e. But I can’t imagine one would take these intimate photos if it was a simple financial agreement. Money for s*x.

I sent scans of the photos to a few of his military friends to see if they knew anything and nobody did.

I was initially pretty freaked out by the pictures of dead “g*#*#s” (I won’t use the slang—but using racial derogatory comments to describe the “enemy” is encouraged in war. Dehumanizing them makes them easier to k**l). It was a trophy of some sort? Why keep this? But I sort of get it. It’s not uncommon to keep war souveneirs.

But this beautiful young Asian woman. Presumably Vietnamese? Perhaps Thai? (from the stories of R and R in Bangkok).

Anyway, after seeing all this stuff, while i found it deeply troubling, it helped me to understand my father. As I said—an intelligent, kind, generous man. Deeply troubled, but a good man. And like thousands, perhaps millions of young men (and women), he was called on to do a very, very dark task. I suspect, as an 18 year old, he bought in to the story the government told him. At the time it seemed like a good idea.

It was just one of those things. He never explicitly told me about k**ling anyone. And I never directly asked. But seeing the evidence? You think you know someone, but their is an entire side you’ve never experienced.

In any case, After the shock wore off, I was able to see this with compassion. Good men and women on both sides, stuck in a terrible war. Too much death on all sides. How does an otherwise peaceful person make sense of it? I suspect the guilt of all this is what ultimately destroyed him. Sad stuff. And not uncommon. This s**t has happened since the human race started going to war.

Image credits: P-Chemist

#9

There are seven “Works of Mercy” that Catholics should do every chance they get. One of them is “bury the dead.” (Bonus points for you Catholic school graduates who remember the other six without looking them up.)

Burying the dead includes taking care of their final affairs, which includes cleaning out their possessions.

I’ve done this for three people now: a disabled teen I used to care for, my sister, and my step-grandfather.

When I cleaned out the teen’s room, I found some of his old casts. He had to sleep in body casts his entire life, and he had casts for his wrists and ankles that he wore since he was a toddler. Since he had cerebral palsy and couldn’t move on his own, the casts kept him straight and applied pressure so his joints would form as normally as possible. His father and I agreed that we should throw away the casts before his mother saw them, so I did just that. There was a house under construction nearby, and the crew there let me dump them in their dumpster.

My sister’s room… the very room she died in three days prior… had prescription pill bottles on every surface. There must have been 300 empty bottles in there. Her live-in boyfriend said there were some full bottles, but some of her fellow meth addict friends came in within hours of her death and took every pill they could find.

But what disturbed me most was what we found when we cleaned out my step-grandfather’s house. He lived by himself for the last 15 years of his life, in a small house in the middle of a field in rural Indiana. We’re talking “pump my own well water and burn my own trash” rural. He did have electricity, at least.

He was somewhat of a hoarder, and it took weeks to clean everything out of his house. Buried in his garage were two classic cars from the 1950s. When his children saw them, they remembered them from their childhood. They thought he got rid of them long ago, but he didn’t. He just buried them under years of crap he bought for no reason.

What disturbed me, though, were the mice droppings and nests we found EVERYWHERE. Some looked old, some looked new, but there wasn’t a room in that house that didn’t have at least one mouse nest. I wonder if he knew about them and didn’t care, or didn’t know what to do about them, or didn’t even know they were there.

That’s why I don’t want to live alone in my final years. I find it comforting to think that, statistically speaking, of everyone in my family, I’m likely the first to die. I don’t want to be that guy who lives by himself in a mouse-infested house for his final 15 years, too proud to ask for help.

Image credits: Matthew-Bates-27

#10

My mother had been a widow for twelve years when she met met a lovely older gentleman while visiting me in Massachusetts. After their first date, she called to announce their engagement. I did all I could to maintain my composure, fearing that my 76 year old mom Rose had completely fallen off her rocker.

She never looked back, not even to her house in New Jersey, so it fell on my daughter and me to clear out four decades of possessions and sell it.

I went through each and every piece of paperwork, each drawer full of miscellany, every corner of the basement, for any family heirlooms, jewelry, photo albums, or the short list of personal items she wanted to start her new life.

On the last day before closing, I emptied out her night table and found a yellowed envelope from a doctor dated sometime in the 1940s. Inside was a brief handwritten letter about my dad, confirming that he had epilepsy and was not qualified for driving or the draft.

When my dad was asked about his exemption from the service, he always said it was because of flat feet.

When I asked why my dad never got a driver’s license, my mom always came up with some kind of reason or roundabout excuse which I now don't recall.

I mentioned the letter to my brother and he told me that one day, when he was a little boy, he saw our father rigid and unresponsive in his easy chair. He thought our dad was dead. My mother called the doctor and some kind of intervention ensued.

No mention was ever made to me, the older sister.

My father's condition was a dark family secret. The stigma attached to epilepsy was a burden on afflicted individuals in many ways—social ostracism, loss of work or custody of children, family embarrassment, personal shame, even medical ignorance prevailed. I’m sure that in historic times, victims were considered possessed by evil demons, and these were the cruel modern day vestiges.

Thankfully, my brother and I, and our children, did not show any signs or symptoms, even though epilepsy can run genetically in families.

I will never know if my dad told her during their ten month courtship.

My mother would not have told me to her dying day, she was so dedicated to protecting my father and our family from the consequences of disclosure.

I don't blame her, she had a burden to bear, making her a victim too.

POSTSCRIPT: After writing this piece, I contacted my first cousins. It turns out that my father’s sister had epilepsy too. She told her daughter that she and my father fell out of Grandpa’s truck and hit their heads when they were children, a family legend—actually, a cover-up—concocted and maintained to pretend that the epilepsy in our family never existed.

Image credits: Barrie-Levine

#11

Disturbing / interesting. Depends how you look at it.

My grandfather was well, a young kid’s dream. He’d had a “good” war. He was a relatively senior officer in the Royal Artillery and was an ack-ack commander in Liverpool until D-Day preparation. He landed on D-Day. Eventually. His landing craft got stuck on a sandbank on a falling tide, so they had an enjoyable few hours with a grandstand view of the action before they actually hit the beach itself. He was never on speaking terms with the Royal Navy after that. And judging by the photograph he’d taken from the bridge of the ship I can understand.

He talked about his experiences, unlike my mother’s father who’d been a Japanese POW following the fall of Singapore.

To an impressionable couple of grandchildren, it was interesting and I suppose exciting. We were still to young to see war as utterly horrendous. It was an adventure.

Anyway, he encouraged us to learn to shoot; air rifles and pistols, bows and arrows etc all at a stupidly young age (it’s quite rare in the UK. No semi automatic rifles as your 12th birthday present). So that was all fun, until a friend came over with us one day and he shot with me with a .22 and I still have the pellet in my hand 35 years later.

Grandpa finally and very suddenly died, so my brother and i helped my parents to clear the house.

He’d always been into his guns and actually had a beautiful pair of Purdey shotguns, along with the air guns, a collection of knives and knuckle dusters and a walking stick that was also a sword and a walking stick that doubled as a small gauge shotgun. We reasoned it must have been In case “Jerry tried to have another bash”. He was on good terms with the local police so all seemed relatively in order. Well they knew where to come to if they needed armed back up.

It was only when we opened his large safe hidden away behind a cupboard full of booze that we found out exactly how prepared he was.

Apart from the circa 750 rounds of ammunition, ranging from 9mm to .50 inch (a couple of which I took into school…); there were 2 sten submachine guns, a couple of service revolvers, a semi automatic pistol, a German Luger and an MP44 Schmeisser.

I must say it was really quite impressive. Firstly, that he’d managed to stuff them all in the safe and secondly that in a whisky or gin induced moment of excitement (dependent on the time of day), he’d not decided to put on a small display.

For a British person, it was unusual to find such an arsenal behind numerous bottles of de Kuyper Cherry Brandy, Advocaat, Kirsch, Pflumli and various bottles of scotch (all in itself a bit of an arsenal).

Image credits: Wendlestone

#12

Cleaning things out after my Mother passed away we found letters she wrote to each of us. She had Alzheimer’s and Parkinson's. The letters were incredibly sad, not because of what they said, but more how much she must have struggled to write these thoughtful good-byes. She wrote one for my Dad, one for each if her children, and a general one. Each letter had multiple crossed out words. She had literally cut up pieces of paper and taped them together to try to make a complete letter. My brother was serving in Afghanistan at the time. I xeroxed his and sent the copy to him, so it wouldn't get lost over there. My sister’s letter was the clearest. As the eldest child, I imagine my Mom wrote her letter first. All though the letters my Mother wrote were a heartfelt gift, looking at the pieces cut and taped together and how her beautiful writing virtually became unreadable, was very sad. She must have worked on them at night when she couldn't sleep. My Father did not know about them until he went through the lock box they had. When my Father passed away he left me (I was their caregiver) a beautiful poem. I treasure my Mother's letter and my Father’s poem. They tried so hard to be good parents. I was fortunate to spend their last years with them and be with them as they passed away. I look up to the stars every night and pray that somehow we are looking at the same stars. My Dad loved nature. On cloudy nights I laugh, because I know my Dad would have had some silly comment about the weather. ❤️❤️

#13

In 2000, my maternal grandfather was in the hospital for what he thought were blood clots, it was discovered he had a fist-sized malignant tumor in his liver. Oncologist gave him a week or two to live, given he had already been hospitalized for a month and was beginning to suffer more extensive clotting with the risk of possible gangrene and amputation of his legs.

My grandfather had been a huge, portly man his whole life, easily 400 lbs. or more. He was in a box van and hit by a train in 1976 (not many rural crossings in Illinois at the time had lights or audio signals), and survived mainly on his bulk; he was thrown from the vehicle into a ditch, and all he had as a lasting reminder was a foot-long scar that ran down his inner thigh to his upper shin. The van wreckage made the papers, and looked as if a giant had twisted it into a grey, metal pretzel.

He begged my father to please let him go home, just for a day or so, rather than go directly to hospice. The hospital was unwilling to release him (he could not walk anymore), and the look on his face (me being the last one to see him alive) was one of anger and dismay.

When my father and I were going through his things, we found a loaded police revolver in his office desk. In all the time we’d known him, he was never known to own or use a firearm. We pretty much concluded that his goal was to go home and take his life rather than die slowly, but thankfully he passed away 12 hours before he was to go into hospice (48 hours after his cancer diagnosis).

My grandfather was one of the most jovial, positive, loving men I’ve ever known. He was more of a father to me in many ways than my own was, and was always ready with a song, with cash for me and my sister (he was a local champion pinochle player), which pretty much financed my home library for a decade. Thinking he was in despair like this at the end to contemplate suicide hurt more than his actual passing did.

Image credits: Michael-Cristel-1

#14

When my friend Richard (name changed) died, he had no surviving family of which we knew. Although I say “friend”, I didn’t really know him that well. He had been a tech on a couple of plays I’d been in.

Another actor I knew had gone out to do a wellness check on him and discovered his body. Apparently he’d had a heart attack while in the bathroom. He was found there.

Richard was best friends with a mutual friend. I called her when I heard. When I asked about a service, she explained that no one knew what to do, as he had no family.

I have written this many times: I’m a complete dolt about everyday life. However, I am great with emergencies or hard challenges.

So I started this odyssey of trying to figure out who to contact and how to get his body released. I ended up, with some help, being able to contact his cousins. His body was released & I arranged to have him cremated.

Before his cremation, which I attended alone, I brought a small bouquet of flowers to put in his coffin; I read some Shakespeare to him; and at the last minute snuck a cigarette in there as well; just in case. I think he would have appreciated that. We were smoking buddies, standing outside on break during many rehearsals.

Now. This process took almost two weeks. I was in his apartment twice. Once while trying to find info on any extended family; and once with police, to try and salvage some of his belongings before his apartment was condemned.

Richard was a hoarder.

Apparently he could throw nothing away. I mean nothing, including trash. I do not know how he survived his home. It was beyond hazardous. There was absolutely no open floor space. It was an obstacle course over objects to try and get from one point to the other.

He was a large man. I don’t understand how he didn’t constantly have a sprained ankle or broken leg. It was that bad.

Imagine a tornado hit your house. Inside. Add years worth of receipts and plastic bags, clothes, records, furniture, and stuff that belonged in the garbage, was strewn everywhere by this tornado. I had to look to find the bed. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the mess.

Under the bed were tied-off, white plastic deli bags of cigarette butts. He’d empty the ashtrays but couldn’t throw the bags of butts out.

It goes without saying, I guess, that the apartment had never been cleaned.

What was found that was even more of a surprise than the disastrous mess? Bank statements.

He had millions in his account.

He chose to live like that. Although choice may be the wrong word. I think it entirely possible he stayed there because if he moved, someone had to see the place. He probably couldn’t bear the idea of anyone knowing how he lived.

It somehow made it more awful to me, knowing he had money.

We are all prisoners of our own minds, to some extent. We tell ourselves stories about why or why not we can do something. More often, I bet, we tell ourselves why we can’t do something.

Richard’s mind kept him a prisoner in that dreadful place.

Being comfortable isn’t always…comfortable. I tell myself if I want to make a change, I’ve got to be willing to go through the initial discomfort.

Somehow I’ve made his apartment a metaphor for that.

Image credits: Elizabeth-Grey-26

#15

My father-in-law died at the age of 94. My mother-in-law had died 14 years before. My husband and I had to clean out his house. We found a huge scrapbook in the attic.
My husband had known since he was a teenager that his father had a long-running affair with another woman. My MIL knew this too and it was a source of continued tension in their marriage. My husband said sometimes my FIL would get a phone call from the “other woman”, drop everything and rush to see her. My husband had never forgiven his father for cheating on his mother with this woman. The “other woman” had died of cancer before my MIL passed. My FIL went to her funeral.
The scrapbook we found had been created and given to my FIL by the “other woman”. It contained over 100 items written by her about my FIL and their relationship. There were descriptions of things they had done together, how she felt about him, poetry about him, how she wished they could be together, how wonderful my FIL was, etc. The scrapbook pages were beautifully decorated and obviously had taken a lot of work. The scrapbook cover was a work of art by itself. There were dates on some of the pages, but not on the scrapbook as a whole.
We were flabbergasted by this scrapbook. My husband had 2 sisters. We never told them about this find. I don’t think the sisters knew about the other woman as much as my husband did. We didn’t know what to do with this scrapbook. Eventually we decided to return it to the other woman’s children even though we didn’t know how much drama this would cause. My husband knew their names and where they lived. So that’s what he did. We never heard anything back about what they thought of this scrapbook, but we sure thought it was weird.

Image credits: Nancy-Alar

#16

My grandfather was one of twelve siblings and he had three sisters who never married and stayed at the homestead their whole lives. As the last one of them died in the late 80’s we did clear out the house so my grandmother could move into it. What we found was a bit sad, a bit shocking and also an eye opener. Their basement was filled with shelves, they grew up in a time where every resource had to be protected and used and on the shelves we found jars of blueberry jam, carefully labeled. “ Blueberry jam, summer 1947” It was fourty years old, and they had kept it. In the attic we found something even more sadening. One of the girls had been engaged, for sixteen years. But the fiancee got tired of waiting and broke the engagement. Still she had kept everything she had prepared for the marriage, as it was custom to do. In a chest, carefully packed was her wedding gown, which she never had worn, eight embroidered sheets, twelve sets of towels, embroidered, eight sets of embroidered handkerchiefs and so on. An enormous amount of work had gone into that box, and it had all been for nothing. It does truly make one appreciate the good life we have, and treasure even the smallest things, for they are what makes the foundations of life itself.

#17

I am answering anonymously because my answer contains information that could reveal the identity of the person being discussed in my answer should my name be associated.

I am a Realtor. Several years ago, I sold a house to a woman over 60. She seemed lonely and didn’t drive. We spend many, many hours together during the transaction, many of them in the car, having a bite to eat and talking over the phone, and became casual friends. I learned that her husband has committed suicide by gunshot and their son had done the same thing years later. This explained a lot to me. We did not talk of it after that time, except with rare references to the loss of her son.

A few years later, I received a phone call that she had passed away and I was one of the people to be contacted upon her death. I was in the will to sell her house and listed as one of her “next of kin” since she was estranged from the one family member who remained. Under the direction of her executor, I began the task of sorting through, inventorying and packing her things.

There was a single plastic folder. It contained everything she kept that remained of her son. Birth certificate, death certificate, diplomas, passport, hospital baby bracelet, a few mementos from his infancy and countless greeting cards he had written to her since he lived on the other side of the country from her in his adulthood.

One 9x12 manila envelope made a disturbing and sad impression on me. It contained all of the relevant letters and reports concerning her son’s death. It was far from a simple suicide. He was tragically mentally ill. Between mental illness, not taking medication, impaired by either alcohol or illegal drugs and owning weapons, he had went on a psychotic rant and the police were called. When there was no way out, he shot himself in the head. The police report contained so many details about EVERYTHING from the condition of his home to the details of the results of the gunshot. It was overwhelmingly sad and disturbing. I felt immense sadness for both the young man and his mother. I cannot imagine how much strength it took for her to open that envelope with the detailed reports. The cover letter said that it was sealed so that she would not have to read it if she never wanted, but she had requested all of the details. I suppose most mothers would have wanted to have the information, but I now understand her air of sadness.

She was very religious and since there is no one to take possession of these things, I have finally come up with what I think is a proper way to honor those remaining items of her beloved son who loved his mother so much, according to the cards. May they all rest in peace.

#18

My Mum died very suddenly at the age of 53. She was on her way home from work, on a Friday evening. She pulled into a petrol station to fill up because she and my Dad were driving to Devon that evening for a 2 week holiday. Apparently she said she ‘didn’t feel well’ before collapsing. An ambulance was called, she was put on life support, but they told us that she was brain dead. She’d had a massive brain haemorrhage caused by a berry aneurysm that just suddenly burst. Life support was switched off after we agreed to let them ‘harvest her organs’.

It was the worst year of my life. My sister had committed s*****e (jumped from a block of flats) just 3 months previously. I was a like a zombie. My Dad kept going on about how much he loved her and their last words were “I’ll see you soon, I love you”.

I was given her possessions in a bag at the hospital. There was just her clothes and handbag and her mobile phone.

The phone had got about 10 missed calls and voice messages. I listened to the messages. They were all from my Dad. Whilst she was dying my Dad had left several messages. Starting mildly with:-

Ring me when you’re on your way home.
Where are you, you should be home by now.
Would you mind calling me back and telling me where the f**k you are?
Where the fuck are you, you fucking bitch, answer your fucking phone.
Get f**king home right f**king now.
I’ve organised this holiday, and if you’re f**king late…you f**king know what will happen when you get home.
He obviously didn’t know that I’d listened to these messages, and told everyone that their last conversation was “I love you, I’ll see you soon”.

I just hated him after that. I hated him anyway. He was such a liar. Physically and horribly a*****e to my Mum, and her 4 children. My Mum was an absolute angel, and my Dad was a wife beating bastard. I wish it was him that died instead of my beautiful Mum. I clung to my Mum when I was little as my Dad burnt her with cigarettes. He punched her in the face so many times in front of us. One time he beat her unconscious, then went to work. Me and my siblings had no idea what to do, we were supposed to be getting ready for school. When she came round, it was even more frightening. She had amnesia. She had no idea where she was, she didn’t know her 4 children who were clinging to her and crying.

We didn’t understand any of this. And I suppose it was hidden for a long time. When she died and I listened to those voicemails, I knew how frightened she must have felt.

My Dad is still alive, and my Mum is dead. That is not fair. I wish it had been the other way around.

But I take some comfort in the fact that she rang me on her way home. I was feeding and looking after her cats whilst they were on holiday. I was planning to go round there twice a day, but she asked me if I could stay at the house because she was worried about the cats being left alone for so long. I agreed, she said “I love you, I replied “I love you too”.

That’s why I know that she was happy when she pulled into that garage, because she knew I was looking after her cats, and it took a weight of her mind.

Listening to my Dad’s messages to her phone after she died? I wish I’d recorded them. I’m sick of his hypocrisy.

#19

Before I met my husband he lost everything in the crash of 2009. He had over 30 rental properties, all mortgaged to the max. His ex had left him and they lost their oceanfront mansion. All the rentals were lost too.

We met, and eventually married. He made enough to get by, downsized our life into a tiny apartment. We didn't have a lot but we had 2 old cars, a roof over our head and food in our tummies. Besides that we were happy.

Hubby worked a job he hated, but it paid the bills. I had a steady income from disability.

Hubby biggest pride had been showing his Dad his oceanfront mansion. He felt like he showed dad “See, I did good.”

Hubby paid cash for everything. He always had cash in his wallet.

Nothing about his dying was sadder to me than when I opened his wallet, which was left on the nightstand and it was empty. His pants pockets were empty. My poor husband who had always prided himself for being able to take care of those around him died without even $1 in his wallet or his pocket. It's been 5 years and I'm still sad to remember how this must have hurt him.

#20

I had to go through my grandmother’s, mother’s and husband’s things when they died. I knew my grandmother had money and jewelry stashed in her house, but it appears her caretaker cleaned out the money before I was able to go look for it. I did finally find the jewelry. My mom had a small hoard of jewelry she’d probably bought on tv shopping channels, at least a few thousand dollars worth. It was my husband that gave me the biggest surprise when he passed in March 2018. If you don’t want to read the whole story, skip down to the paragraph with the arrows.

My husband and I met in an internet chatroom; he lived almost 3 hours from me. When we would visit, he drank a lot. His excuse: his mom stressed him out. She was in her 80s, had dementia and he was the main caregiver.

We went on vacation to Hawaii and he would make himself margaritas, get drunk and then want to nap. I was upset that his drinking caused us to spend a lot of time in the condo instead of out enjoying the vacation. When we returned, I asked him if he thought he had a drinking problem. He said “Maybe”. I told him that I had dealt with substance abuse, mental illness and abuse in my first marriage and would not be interested in continuing a relationship with someone who had an alcohol problem. I told him if he needed help, get it and I would be supportive. He agreed, but never followed through and I considered ending the relationship.

A few months later, he had a stroke. He had been diagnosed with high blood pressure 10 years before but never took meds. He was also diabetic, which was controllable with diet. He was told to stop drinking. Except for a few slip ups, he did not drink that I knew of and though I wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, I stopped drinking to be supportive.

Fast forward a few years, we got married, bought a house and he continued to commute weekly to his job and take care of his mom, coming home on weekends. 2 years later, he retired from his job and moved himself and mom to our home. I noticed sometimes when I got home from work, he seemed buzzed. I asked him about it, he said he had one beer. Once my car broke down and I needed a ride, he told me he’d had a beer and couldn’t drive. I had to pay the tow truck driver to take me home. Then I noticed he was prescribed meds for his diabetes, wasn’t taking them and he hadn’t told me. I told him his drinking was why he needed the pills and he needed to stop drinking if he didn’t want to take the meds. Then, I had to put something away in his closet and found a bottle of rum and diet soda. I dumped the booze and put the bottles in recycling. When he came home and saw them, he tried to hide them, not realizing I was the one that put them there. I told him if he didn’t stop, he could leave. He apologized, said I was right and would quit.

In January 2018 his mother passed away, complications of a broken hip. Then in March, he wasn’t feeling well. After a few days I told him to go to the doctor. He said if he wasn’t better in a week he’d go. I kept nagging him and he agreed he’d go the next morning after he showered and shaved. I left him in the bedroom watching tv. A few hours later I checked on him and he had pulled his cap over his face to take a nap. Later as I was getting ready for bed, I discovered he’d died. Autopsy discovered it was his heart; atherosclerosis. If he’d gone to the doctor, he’d probably still be alive. The alcohol, sneaked junk food and untreated hypertension finally took him.

>>>As I went through his things, I discovered more rum and soda in the closet. I realized he probably never quit drinking, he just couldn’t hide it as well once he retired and was home full time. I went through his personal papers and discovered he’d had 2 DUI’s in the 90s that he never told me about. If I’d known, I would never have married him. Sadly, his death probably saved me from future heartache dealing with the drinking.

Stubborn men, if you don’t feel well, don’t be brave; get checked.

Image credits: Julie-Andress-1

#21

My grandma died when she was only 64. It was sudden and unexpected.

She and my grandfather had a lovely large home, built by her grandfather. My grandfather continued to live there, so it wasn't that we had to rush to clear everything out.

When we were sorting through her belongings, what broke my 15-year-old heart was seeing all the beautiful items she had tucked away, never used. Grandpa said she was waiting for a special occasion.

But she died before any occasion arose.

In particular, I remember beautifully embroidered pillowcases that had been personalized for her. They were gorgeous and intricate. And they were in a box, the same box they were in when she had been given them. She never thought she was special enough to use them. They ended up being photographed and used as a cover of a book about our family genealogy.

So here's what I learned at such a young age:

Any day you're not pushing up daisies is a special day. Don't wait for a perfect day.
Use the good china for no particular reason.
Wear your new shoes to church, or to the local diner, and not just to weddings.
And if someone gives you beautiful embroidered pillowcases, lay your head on them tonight.

#22

For a number of years I worked with elderly people who I helped them get their financial affairs in order. It was a very rewarding job because I enjoyed talking to them. I wanted them to know that they were going to be okay as their health deteriorated. Money makes people do terrible things and I had seen it ALL!! So I still had young high net worth clients but the elderly were just more enjoyable and appreciated all the effort.

One day I was called to meet a new client that was living in terrible conditions. He had a substantial amount of money but typical in a child of the Great Depression was worried it was going to run out. Although he was admittedly different I didn’t know why in the beginning. Because he was doing odd things like dumpster diving at 83 and he wore an old electrical cord as a belt. He seemed oblivious to his own odor and lack of proper hygiene. The biggest issue was that he wasn’t caring for his home and one rather negative neighbor who had an ulterior motive called the police on him.

Most people don’t know that in many states a neighbors complaints about your lawn not being cared for or your home in disrepair can be the first steps to making you a ward of the state. Where I worked it happened often and it NEVER benefitted the individual or their heirs.

So luckily I was friends with a number of people in this neighborhood and his meals on wheels volunteer who introduced me to this man. His house was going to be condemned, and it was a real death trap. He was a hoarder and the outside of the house was terrible but inside was worse. The issue was that the land was worth a fortune.

If you had seen him you would have thought he was homeless and impoverished. He was very friendly but there was clearly an event that triggered his situation. Some of his caring neighbors tried to look out for him but it was too much. He did have a daughter but had not spoken with her for 30 years.

In order to help him I needed to get my hands on any documents he had. I drove to his house and was prepared to search through everything but the smell was so bad I could not be there for more than 30 minutes. In his state no honest attorney would work with him. He said he had a will and I needed to locate it. The next day he calls me and we meet in his bank. He is pushing a shopping cart full of documents which he gives me and then he went about his day.

I loaded my car with his papers which smelled terrible and spent the next 2 days going through them. It was after going thru the papers that I found his daughters name and general location. But I also found that he had had 2 daughters. I found an old will that referenced the 2 daughters and his wife.

When I found a death certificate I assumed it was his wife’s but I was wrong. It showed one of his daughters had been murdered. Below the death certificate was a few newspaper clippings that gave details of the incident. As I read thru them I was horrified and wanted to put them all down. As I was piecing the situation together I realized that his daughter was married to a long haul truck driver. THey were separated and one night her husband came to her fathers house while he and his wife were out. He killed her and left. When he and his wife returned home they found her body and blood was everywhere. His wife had a heart attack at the sight of the daughter and died at the hospital a few days later.

The daughters husband was picked up 5–7 days after a few states away. He plead guilty and was sentenced to life in prison. As a parent I couldn’t imagine losing a child but losing a child to murder just brought tears to my eyes.

Below the newspaper articles was a letter he wrote to his surviving daughter. I tried to be respectful in reading only what is necessary but it was impossible. I learned the deceased daughter had a son who was now living with his other daughter. For those of you who feel like I violated his trust please understand that my recommendations cannot be made without knowing all heirs, ages, relationship and situation. For this man I was going to have to get him access to a long term care home and at his state it would require some explanations.

His letter seemed to explain his struggle with what he needed to do to deal with the situation. He was a religious man and was being counseled to forgive his son in law but he couldn’t. His life changed that day and he didn’t know how to deal with it. Apparently he had encouraged his daughter to give the marriage a chance and seek counseling but his wife disagreed. He felt responsible for the outcome and it changed him so much that he seemed to be a different person to his surviving daughter. He lost his wife and daughter in that and his other daughter and grandson after. It was devastating just knowing what he had been through and I wanted to try and help him in any way I could.

He died 3 years after we met but his last 3 years were really different. He went to a very nice retirement community where his diet was controlled and helped him get healthy. He had excellent medical care and reunited with his daughter and grandson a year after we met. He was so thankful for the reunion and the relationship that he spent a lot of time with them both. He also got to meet his great granddaughter 6 months before he passed away. He wrote me a very nice note of thanks that I still have today.

When he passed away he was able to provide enough money that his daughter got to retire, his grandson got a house and his great granddaughter could go to any college she wanted. The funeral was bittersweet.

#23

Well, it’s not so much disturbing as it was sad.

A bottle of Viagra.

Backstory: My (now ex) husband’s parents had been divorced for over 25 years. He was kind of an odd man; he was polite, and certainly generous with some inheritance funds he’d received. He’d bought a nice home, a newer car, and gave his kids some proceeds every year from CDs as they matured. He planted roses in his yard and showed visitors how many electrical outlets his house had. The divorce was a topic we just didn’t approach very often. When it came up, he was pretty bitter. He would say he didn’t know why his wife thought he’d cheated on her and that she was never satisfied with his ability to provide for the family. I got the impression that she was a shrew who enjoyed berating her husband (that was pretty much an accurate description). He was especially incensed that she’d been allowed to get their marriage annulled in the Catholic Church so she could remarry. “What, 22 years and 4 kids and the marriage never existed?” He didn’t date-he once said “Well I’m still married in the eyes of God and I won’t break my vows”.

My husband’s brother lived much closer to him than we did and spent time with Dad several times a week, We heard a little bit now and then from the family that Dad had a “lady friend”, but it was pretty low-key. They’d see each other at church, go to a buffet. maybe meet for coffee every couple of weeks as far as anyone knew. My brother-in-law said he’d stopped by the house a few times when the lady was there. Dad usually shooed him away. When we phoned him, we caught on that if she was there, he’d be short with us and not want to talk. Once when we visited, we noticed two sets of stair-stepper exercisers in the rec room. He hastily made up some excuse why he had a spare (but of course it wasn’t for a guest). Eventually the brother learned her name.

When my father-in-law died of a sudden heart attack, my husband and I were sent to the house to retrieve the clothing he was to be buried in. The bottle of Viagra was in the top dresser drawer, and a few pills were gone. This came as an “oh ho ho, what a surprise” moment to both of us.

The lady friend slipped in the door at the beginning of the funeral, sat in the back, and left quickly during the last hymn. We decided to pay her a visit a couple days later-my husband thought it was unfortunate she felt she couldn’t stay and meet the family. There was more to it than we’d even dreamed, however. She was so grateful we took the time to look her up. And we learned that they’d been seeing each other for 18 years, and my oh-so-righteous FIL would not be seen with her in public. He wouldn’t sit with her in church. They did go to the buffet-but it was in the next town over, in separate cars so no one they knew would see them. He did have her over to his house, and yes, those were his & hers steppers. His answer to her pleading with him to go public was “what would my children say? I’m supposed to be a good example of a Catholic.” What a jerk.

It was so very sad to realize this 70 year old dear sweet German woman had been his secret mistress for 18 years. She learned of his death in the paper and barely made it to the funeral at all. She felt acknowledged, finally, by our visiting her. We never had another opportunity to see her again.

The worst part was that she didn’t have enough self-esteem to walk away years ago when he insisted they keep their relationship under wraps.

#24

When my mum died, I was in a state of cold where, even turning over our apartment and rifling through her possessions, I felt absolutely nothing toward the stuff. If it weren’t for my grandma, I would’ve tossed everything out, because I just deemed everything useless at the time.

No father, and now, no mother. I didn’t really see the point of much of anything, so those few years passed in a blur of me not caring much what happened to me, and more often than not, contemplating suicide if I got too into my feelings.

I don’t feel like that now, thank God, but it still makes me shiver to think that, after a year of being a shell, and not remembering what happened that entire one year, I came out a simple upgrade of a lifeless husk. More so, in the sense that, I actually summed up the courage to makes people laugh and feel happy themselves, like I did for my mother when she was around, even thought my emotions were as shallow as a splash pool.

So, when I was going through the various assortment of diaries she had stashed away in drawers, and in between DVD’s, and sometimes, under the kitchen sink, I read them over. My only thought was that she must’ve been a very secretive woman to have so many diaries, and so many hiding places for them, when I hadn’t even seen one in my entire lifetime.

However, one diary I read made me feel, for lack of a better word, disturbed.

And that’s saying something: considering my inability to feel much of anything.

It was a diary I’d found somewhere near our old TV, squeezed right under the TV set and dusty from misuse. It was this faded black leather type diary, with a string you wind around it to tie it shut. Very old fashioned, and every like my mum.

I was expecting one of those weird tangent diaries she had, where she’d complain about inflation rates, my father disappointing me on more than one occasion, and her ridiculous work hours. What I found, was a relatively empty book. The pages were clean, but stank of old paper, but not a single page was filled with her scrawled handwriting.

It wasn’t until I flipped through the book more diligently, stubborn for something, anything, to bring me closure as to why she’d hide an apparently useless diary under the heavy as heck TV set.

I got to the few pages in the back, and I just kinda froze. Till this day, it doesn’t stop bothering me what if it could’ve meant. It was actually on that day that I was seriously considering k**ling myself. Just that morning, I’d written a lengthy s*****e note, apologising to my grandparents, and making my dad feel like a piece of crap in one paragraph about all the dates he missed, and the messages he left on read.

Take into a account, my mum died of some progressive form of asthma, meaning she slowly got weaker and weaker, then passed on in hospital, and didn’t just abruptly leave my life like in a car accident or something. No matter how many times I’ve turned it over in my head, I just can’t seem to figure out how that what she wrote could’ve applied to me in a logical sense. Was it something random? A sign? Some type of glitch in the matrix or something? A freaking warning to herself that I just blew out of proportion?

Honestly, who knows.. All I know is that I didn’t kill myself that day. No, I was too busy worrying about what the message at the back of that diary could’ve meant.

Cause, just a few pages from the soft cover of the book, was a rushed scrawling of letters. In her black, jagged, handwriting:

“Don’t do it!”

I swear, it still leaves me rattled as hell. Needless to say, I didn’t tell anyone about it. I just silently stood up, walked out the house, into the car, and demanded we went to a therapy session the next day.

Whatever that message was, I’m grateful for it. So, thanks Mum. I probably would’ve made a grave mistake, otherwise.

#25

My wife had a Great Uncle. He had a hard war (WW2) and when he returned, instead of returning to the family in Illinois, he settled in Tucson, AZ. He estranged himself from his sisters and any other family and they seldom heard from him. They’d get occasional word from mutual friends that he was still alive but there was little engagement with them.

In November of 2001, the day came when the family learned that Jimmy had died. We were contacted by the VA and my in-laws flew to AZ to meet up with my wife and they drove down to Tucson to help sort out Jimmy’s affairs.

He lived, they learned, like a hermit, in a small shack-like house in an old part of town. He had few possessions. One thing that he had in abundance, though, is what surprised everyone.

Jimmy, it seemed, spent most of his time volunteering at the Tucson VA hospital. In fact, according to all of the Service Award certificates, he had spent over one hundred thousand hours (the equivalent of every hour for 11 solid years) volunteering his time working with our war veterans. He had a stack of certificates thanking him for his endless hours donated to the hospital.

To thank him, the VA helped arrange for his burial with full military honors, saying it was the very least they could do for their most dependable volunteer.

Unfortunately, the family had no idea before he died.

The family always believed that he’d lost too much of himself in the war. He spent the rest of his days giving everything he had left to the VA.

He wasn’t lost at all.

Okay, that was the story. I’m so glad that it has touched so many people. Thank you. I simplified the relationship between Jimmy and his family back home because that wasn’t the point of the story. But like all good stories, there are people who choose to miss the point and focus on the negative. This says a lot about you that you should contemplate in front of a mirror.

Estrangement happens for many reasons. Let me assure you that it was NOT a case of his family turning their backs on him. They called. They wrote. Cousins would try to visit when in Arizona. This vision you are imposing on them is totally wrong. At this very moment, I’m estranged from my own brother. I don’t know why. He won’t respond. He’s told others not to call or text. We don’t know why. Unfortunately, it happens. I wish it didn’t.

Others have chosen to make comments about the VA and how they don’t have the power to grant military funerals. For the love of monkeys! Jimmie’s remaining family are all old women who never served in the military and would never know to ask for military honors. The VA made sure they did and made the arrangements. Again…mirror. Stare for a while. Think.

But what I won’t allow is you belittling my family over one of their biggest sorrows. Let’s focus on what this story is about—his quiet devotion to the family Jimmy chose and how much the family learned about him while cleaning up his things.

And Jimmie…thanks for the pipe wrench.

Additional.

I just renewed my subscription on Ancestry. I decided to dig in a little on Jimmie. I found military service records. Forgive me. I’m just an idiot son-in-law. :) Jimmie served in the Navy during World War 2. I thought he was in Korea. I found this image:

Image credits: Clint-Potts-1

#26

After my mother died, my father begged me not to go through her closet while he was alive. I didn’t open it until he passed away almost a year later.

When I opened the closet, I understood why Dad didn’t want me to open it. The closet was jammed full of clothes never worn with the tags on them from stores long closed. Dad would have cried to see hundreds of dollars of his money just thrown away.

I called different organizations to come for the clothes. One woman hugged me and cried: these were unused and nice clothes, so different from the used hand-me-downs. I emptied mom’s closet in a day.

My kids asked me why I didn’t sell the clothes and make some money. I just smiled and shook my head. It was better like this.

#27

When my mother died I was cleaning out the drawers in her room and came across a three inch stack of money orders that showed she had sent my sister, who at the time was a d**g addict, thousands of dollars.

My mother was living with us for ten years, and for those ten years complained daily about me, about living with me, about how I wouldn’t drive her to and from work when she worked, I drove my husband to work at 4 am, and me to work at nine, so it’s not like I was even there.

My sister in the meantime was the golden child, though she never came to see her, and only called, apparently to ask for money. Everything she earned went to my sister and I had no idea of what was going on.

My sister and I were never close, I just thought it was because we were very different people. Now I know it was because she was heavily into d***s even early on.

A few weeks after my mother’s death I got a call from my sister, she said she was being evicted and needed five hundred dollars. I told her I wasn’t about to take up where my mother had left off and she needed to get clean and not rely on me to pay for her drugs. She’s still living in the same apartment, her body is a wreck though she’s not been on drugs for years. We exchange Christmas and birthday cards. And have no other relationship.

Every time I think of my sister I see that fat roll of money orders that sucked the joy out of my mother’s last years. When they say d***s ruin people’s lives they’re not just talking about the person taking the drugs.

#28

I had a friend as a teenager who shared the same brain with me. For 4 years we didn’t get much sleep. Drank ourselves silly every night, or into the back of a squad car. Like myself he made no friends in 12 years of school. When we met there was a symbiosis between us, simpatico, and a lust for life or death. Neither of us gave a s**t.

I remember his father picking him up in 11th grade to go flip burgers. School nor the people in it were for him so he got out. He was as intelligent as anyone going off to college, he was too blinded by the bullying and popularity contest he witnessed every day to see the lights. Yeah wise beyond his time.

A year and a half later our paths crossed. He was more verbal by then and quick to say “f**k you”to the same people whose s**t he put up with in school. Me too. Alcohol had loosed the intelligence we both buried as school boys. We were two quick witted angry young men going around in circles. A couple of misdemeanors a year, one dead end job after another, and an ever strengthening addiction to alcohol.

I received a phone call a year and a half ago from his sister telling me he was dead. All she had were his ashes and a mess of a house to empty out. I last saw him 30 years ago right before he moved to another state. We talked once a year over the phone for 30 years straight. We had both given up the demon life where our friendship was forged.

He was only in his 50s when he passed. I was coming home from a family vacation with my wife and 2 young girls when she called. In the course of one of those phone calls maybe 20 years ago he told me that he was going to be a veterinarian. I sent him every college paper I’d ever written to help him on his way and encouraged him. He was smart enough to do it. Most of the papers were essays about the wild side of life we both knew so well.

He never married. I almost didn’t either, but life is funny that way. You find most things when you’re not looking. She filled me in on the details of his last 30 years. He never really changed. He was a loner and never found happiness. He basically died of old age.

She thanked me for writing a testimonial to him about how we explored the cosmos of youth together for his memorial service, that I sent by the U.S. MAIL as he would have put it.

She didn’t know what to do with the ashes, he lived such a lonely life. She wanted me to know that the only thing she found cleaning out his house were the essays I’d sent all those years ago. It was the only thing he seemed to care about. Stories of being young and having a friend

#29

I am Canadian (ex UK). I was with my wonderful ex-wife Bonnie for many years and together as life partners longer than that.

Bonnie is from Winnipeg and is the single best person I have ever met anywhere. We met and lived in Ontario.

She had a great mother but was basically bought up by her Grandmother. She had I think 3 sisters and a brother (all of whom I met several times). After a few years, I eventually met her Grandmother who turned out to be a terrific person to be with too.

I met her Grandmother another two or three times and always enjoyed it - a really nice lady. Different, but great (we danced a lot). I started to understand why Bonnie was so wonderful.

Years roll by and eventually, Grandmother dies and Bonnie goes to Winnipeg to help her mother sort through Grandmother’s stuff and do what is needed. (Bonnie and I are going through a fairly tough time financially as I have just lost a lot of money in the Middle East due to my mistake in trusting a UK Banker).

About 2 weeks later Bonnie comes back to our home and updates me on a lot of family stuff. She gives me three pairs of knee-high socks which are still in their packets. She explained they found them when they were searching through Grandmothers stuff. She and her mother decided I was the best person to give them too or else dump them.

I was appreciative but not impressed :-) and just filed them away in my sock drawer - this was late summer/fall in Ontario.

I never thought about them again until later that year when winter stuck and I went to my sock drawer and remembered them. This is an early afternoon one mid-week day. Bonnie is at work, I am working on my computer trying to rebuild my business.

I looked at the 3 packs of socks and decided to just open one of them for now and see how they felt.

I opened the plastic covers and then felt the hard cardboard inner liners to help keep them stiff.

I pulled out the inner liners BUT wait there is more; what is this? Wow, hundreds of dollars in Canadian bills.

I fall back sitting on the bed and go WTF! My heart is beating strong as money will help a lot. I quickly count, then recount - nice there is $15,000.

I fall back on the bed to think. I wait for Bonnie to return home and tell her the story.

She tells me her family knew her Grandmother had hidden away some money in cash, but they felt it was likely it had been stolen. They thought her brother Paul was the most likely suspect.

I was glad to give her the money to give back to the family and clear Pauls name (he died many years ago, a nice guy came to live with us for a few weeks while he was turning his life around a bit).

I cried a bit inside but was glad I did the right thing.

Bonnie and I divorced about 25 years ago (it broke my heart) and I still love her today as she is the best person I have ever met. (The divorce was my fault I got my head stuck up my ass in business - she wanted a life. I do not blame her for one second. I learned a lot).

We are still friends today but not together.

#30

My mom was an immaculate typist. She died in her 40’s while much of her family was young (including me). Long after her death I was rooting through our basement for a prize; I heard that her journal was there. I had never been as committed to finding it until this time. After a lot of paperwork I finally located it. As expected it was filled with pages and pages of typing, interspersed with actual handwriting in her favorite purple pens.

I had remembered sitting by her feet as her typewritter clacked away with her very rarely taking a break. I think she was limited by the physical levers of the typewriter itself when she typed because she said she loved going to the computer as it was “much faster”, on the typewriter though she could go as fast as those keys settled back into their position.

My memory was also she rarely made a mistake. Memory is always one thing, but seeing it was another, yet here were hundreds of pages of journal, single spaced, typed and there was perhaps one error every 3 pages. Most often the error (crossed through with XXXX) was where she appeared to have rethought her word choice, more than actually making an error.

I poured through the journal. One page, however, was out of place. It wasn’t in the journal proper, just folded and tucked among the pages.

It is filled with XXXXXX’s, crossouts, notes in the margin. There are other errors that weren’t caught. It was from a very dark part of the history of my parents’ lives. A dark part that happened prior to my birth. My mom at that time, was struggling with her mental health. She knew it too. Had even asked to be committed, but we were far away from family and there were too many needs from her young kids and so she suffered. During this time my dad, one of the upper management at his company, had to stay late a couple times finishing up a large project, and the last day was with a lady coworker. They finished up and left and their cars were in the same direction. My dad, just out of courtesy opened her door for her, turned around and realized what a beautiful girl his coworker was…it scared the crap out of him. He put the door between the two of them, said goodnight and left.

But he felt guilty. He talked to our equivalent of a priest. Our church has no paid ministry, and the guy was a high school football coach, and felt that attacking the problem head on was the answer and told my dad to tell his wife what happened.

My mom thought he was admitting to an affair and it threw her into depression. This sheet, filled with errors and words, describe her losing all hope of a relationship with him. And no, my dad never did have an affair.

It’s the closest my family ever came to being ripped apart. Luckily I also found the loving cards, the little notes my dad left her continuously, and a final letter from her to him beforeshe died that basically said something to the effect of “for friends at first are friends again at last.”

I’m glad my family stayed together.

#31

It was an unusual thing, but not disturbing. My older brother was a “hoarder”. He saved everything, and bought things he never used. When he died at 64 in 2010, my younger brother was appointed executor of his estate. It turned out my older brother was renting three garages filled with a lifelong collection of stuff, including two vehicles, tools, a bunch of furniture my parents had discarded decades ago, and stacks of old newspapers and magazines going back 30 years. The clutter in his apartment was incredulous. There was barely room to move from one room to another. Bags of clothes that had never been worn, newspapers and magazines, and over a hundred VCR cassettes filled with movies and TV shows he had recorded. However, one of the most remarkable things they found was one of the first home computers from Radio Shack, complete with modem, and a primitive printer. Everything was still in the box and appeared to have never been used.

#32

I lost my mother last October (2017) to colorectal cancer. “Suspected” colorectal cancer according to the Death Certificate.

I live 300 miles away from the home that I grew up in, near Glasgow, Scotland. A huge chunk of 2017 was consumed with dashes 300 miles North in an effort to support her through her illness as much as humanly possible whilst maintaining some semblance of family life and employment at my new home in Derby, England.

Following my mothers departure in October, my eldest sister, nephew and I organised a family reunion - of sorts - at my mothers house over the Christmas period to collectively empty the house in preparation for sale.

My mother was 70 years old when she died. She was never a particularly organised or systematic person in life. If anything, she could be thought of as a hoarder although not to the extremes that would warrant a C4 Documentary.

We sifted through all of her belongings, taking anything of reasonable condition and value to the local charity shops, disposing of the unsalvageable at the local council recycling centre and saving the odd trinket or two for ourselves.

There were boxes upon boxes of folders and paperwork. An entire room in the house had been dedicated to paperwork and admin storage. Much of it out of date and no longer relevant … I guess she couldn't bring herself to dispose of it.

I found nothing disturbing in my mothers possession but something which saddened me greatly.

Amongst the remnants of her 70 years possessions; we found a drawer full of batteries, a drawer full of torches and a drawer full of old mobile phones. We also found at least half a dozen bowel cancer screening kits. All of them addressed to her and none of them opened or responded to.

Her Oncologist suspected that the cancer had been undetected for up to 10 years based on its size and progression upon discovery. Some of the screening kits had letters accompanying the kit … some dated more than 10 years previous.

I’m not absolutely sure that discovering the cancer earlier would have lead to a better outcome … but maybe.

#33

My mother inherited several boxes from her mother when she died in 1986 and stuck them away for decades, without ever opening them. A couple years ago, we were discussing heirlooms and my mother decided to get out the boxes, so she could see what was in them. We discovered that my mom’s great great grandmother had labeled all the items in the boxes, which were all from the 1800s, eye glasses, handkerchiefs and combs, lots of small household items. In one tiny box there was a pencil stub, a button, a couple stones and some lint. The note with it said these were the contents from the pocket of my great great great grandfather when he died in 1834. His wife kept them carefully stored away, for the rest of her life, over 50 years, then left them to her grandson, who left them to his daughter, my grandmother, who passed them to my mom. I don’t know which one of my siblings will inherit them and what will be done with them. It’s either a poignant or disturbing legacy.

#34

After my best friend Patrick killed himself at my house, I took on the responsibility of dealing with his belongings.

His Mom was elderly and didnt want to do it. She ended up giving me everything he owned, including the laptop he had in the Jeep with him that night when he attached a vaccum hose to his exhaust pipe and ran it through a small opening of the window.

I was scared to turn the laptop on, really not sure if it would work or not because the saturation inside the vehicle was immense, there were literally drops of water dripping above Patrick…he had plastic containers in the back of the jeep that were a quarter of the way full of water. It was crazy.

So the laptop started up fine but I could barely stand the smell of exhaust, it smelled bad everytime I started it for a year after that.

On his Windows desktop was a note to me and I had to actually walk outside because I thought I was going to be sick.

The note read:

“I have waited 10 years for you to realize that I am the one who really loves you but I can't wait anymore.

C Ya”

It was pretty disturbing.

#35

2 of my aunts died within one year of each other. They were sisters. The older sister died first after moving into a home for retired people.

Upon hearing about her older sister’s death, the younger sister called and asked if they had removed the body yet. She waited until her sister was taken out, then went into her room and went through her dresser looking for any unused medications. She was afraid the nurse would confiscate them.

The younger sister had a drug problem for years and everybody knew it. She was a church lady and very judgmental of any male relatives that drank alcohol. She was a hypocrite.

But the strangest things was when we went to the older sister’s home. She had just moved out into the retirement home, so her furniture was still there.

The younger sister had gone to her older sister’s home and taken all the pictures off of the walls. She took each picture out of the frame, leaving them on the floor after going through them.

When my aunts were children, their parents would hide a small amount of cash behind a family picture for emergencies.

The pathetic thing was that the younger sister died a year later of a drug overdose. She took all of her pills and went to bed. She then woke up and took all of her medication again. She was on so many painkillers, blood pressure pills, and everything else that her heart stopped in the middle of the night. Her husband said she was cold when he woke up the next day.

When the younger sister died, her husband called all the relatives over to help him with a problem. His wife, the younger sister, had hoarded furniture and dishes from her older sister’s home. The basement was filled with the older sister’s belongings.

This was odd because the younger sister had always told us how “blessed” she and her husband were for “living the gospel” and “following the teachings of the Bible”.

She did have a big, beautiful home when she died. They had recently renovated and bought all new furniture. Appearances were everything to her.

But the saddest thing was that I finally found out the secret to her “blessings”. When the younger sister married her husband, his father had given him their home. They never had a mortgage payment - ever. They never had to save for a downpayment. They never had to struggle like everyone else in our family struggled. If you listened to her when she was alive, their wealth came from being good churchgoing Christians. Now she can’t enjoy any of it.

That was over 10 years ago, and I can’t say I miss her one bit. I miss the older sister, but not the younger one. I’ll never understand the insecurity that led her to think she was impressing us or fooling us with her hypocritical rants or her not-so-fake humility.

You can’t make sense out of insanity.

#36

Should keep this anonymous while the pertinent relatives are still living.

Grandpa married a sprightly, attractive, ten-years-younger woman in the 1940s. They went on to live thirty-ish years together, live on a humble country farmhouse estate, raise five children to teen/college age, blah blah blah. Great-Grandpa (Grandpa’s father) lived in the big country farmhouse with them for a few years, then died of elderly cardiac issues. Grandpa (the age-sixty-ish son) died not too long after, of cancer complications.

Eldest-Son was cleaning out the attic, found some letters written between Grandpa and Great-Grandpa (adult son writing to his middle-aged father). These letters had returned to the family after Great-Grandpa’s passing, in a big pile with his things. The letters were written by Grandpa (adult son) to Great-Grandpa (middle-aged father). Only half the correspondence survived, because Grandpa (son) did not keep the return letters.

The letters read “Dear Dad, things are pretty much the same here, countryside, family, blah blah blah, you were right, Wife is very immature and shallow and cruel, but she is attractive and lively and skilled, I will stand by my commitment as much as I don’t consider her a good partner or an equal, the marriage doesn’t make me happy but I will stick things out.” This was iterated two or three times over a variable timeframe. True to form, Grandpa became a solitary, stodgy, old-fashioned character in later life, taking long hunting trips through the woods, sitting alone in his study with books and papers, doting on his children in small chunks, but otherwise leaving the family (and notably his wife) to ‘run the house’ on their own rhythms.

Eldest-Son, my uncle, burned the letters. He told his sister, my mother, about them, which is the only reason I know of their existence. I am struck by what it must have been like for WW2/Boomer-era children to learn, in adult life, that one of their parents felt trapped and unloving towards the other, and I suspect many Quorans might recognize little bits of their own marriage (and commitments) in the text above.

#37

An older cousin who lived nearby passed away. She had been disabled, and our family had hired a caretaker and house keeper for her. She lived in a brand new apartment complex, in a handicap unit. Both staff kept phoning key family members stating my cousin was a hoarder. They would throw out papers, and trash, she would retrieve it.

She died unexpectedly. Her parents were deceased, both her siblings lived 3,000 miles away (the elder sister even refused to attend the funeral), so cleaning out her apartment became the responsibility of our extended family. My mom and her brother were executors of the estate, so about 20 of us pitched in to clear the one bedroom apartment.

Wow. Each room was filled with boxes and I mean up to the ceiling. We think she slept on the living room sofa, because the bedroom was so full, one had to squeeze through to access the closet. There were boxes in the kitchen, bathroom, patio, and the living room.

It took us one month to empty the apartment. We had pick up trucks and SUVs hauling things to the dump. But first we had to go through every single box as she had thrown in heirlooms with trash. You'd open a box, and it was filled with old magazines, coupons, letters, legal papers, jewelry, all jumbled together. We found photos of ancestors none of us had ever seen before.

Finally time was up, we had to vacate her apartment. A team of family members scrubbed it clean. The last boxes were taken to my home so we could go through everything. We put them in the basement.

My cousin had been married twice, but never had kids. She raised her niece's three children, and she had confided to me she hated her sister's husband, her niece's father. I never asked why, but no one liked that man, he was such an arrogant jerk, with a filthy mouth.

One day, my mom was going through some documents in one of the boxes. She said, “oh no!”, shook her head, and said, “now it all makes sense!” She found old court documents whereby the court gave my cousin custody of her niece's children. Her niece had been troubled, ran away as a teen, was angry, and had three children when very young. Family never understood why the children weren't given to the grandparents, my cousin's elder sister and her jerk husband. Per testimony in the court records, jerk husband had sexually assaulted his daughter since childhood. Her parents had brief custody of her children, but he had abused them too. The youngest granddaughter was his “favorite”, and he had confided in her that one of his parents had sexually abused him as a child. The youngest granddaughter testified she and her siblings had told their grandmother (my cousin), what their grandfather was doing to them. She told them they couldn't go to the police because grandpa would go to prison, and they would be poor. And she didn’t want to be poor.

There was more disgusting testimony but my mom couldn't read anymore. She handed it to me. We were both shaking, and decided not to tell anyone about it. But we now fully understood why the two sisters had been estranged. We kept the court records, just in case.

All three grandchildren are grown, married, with families. My deceased cousin took them to therapy for many years, and did the best she could. Her elder sister has cut herself off from the rest of the family, and we heard her husband has dementia and cancer.

#38

My stepdad asked me to help sort through his late mother’s possessions just prior to her going into a retirement home. I didn’t think much of it at first but being an only child and wheelchair bound I figured that he just didn’t have anyone else to ask.

we got to the house and after a few hours he called me to one side and asked if I would go into the loft and look for a wooden box. He was very specific with its description and said that once found to not open it. I agreed and clambered up through the hatch. After a little while I came down empty handed and defeated, announcing that I couldn’t find the box anywhere. My stepdad then told me that within the box was his fathers old Navy officers service revolver from the war and that it must have gotten lost or taken over the years.

We continued with the house clearance and shortly arrived at his mothers bedroom. Her furniture was from the 1950’s and solidly built so we needed to practically take it apart to move it downstairs. After pulling the draws out of her nightstand I noticed that the top draw was heavier than the others. I removed the paper liner to find it had a false bottom which to popped out of place.

And there it was, my stepdad’s father’s revolver. Loaded, cocked, and ready to fire!

We believed that she had it there for protection. At this point dementia had started to set in with the 97 year old dear but there is something comical about a scenario where a would be burglar comes face to face with an elderly woman and her gun.

As for the revolver, it’s in a safe place now.

#39

My parents divorced when i was 5 (1975) & both remarried when I was 8 (1978). My step father passed Sept 2012 & my mom passed Jan 2014. I inherited the house. While cleaning out drawers I found cards that my mom had given my stepfather & vice versa. I found a note my stepdad wrote my mom within the last couple of years before he died. He told her he loved her from the first time he met her….& the month & year. The month was June, the year was 1968! Then as I was going through jewelry I looked closely at their wedding rings…both inscribed with that same date. My mom was always adamant that she never cheated on my dad & he was cheating with that tramp (I ADORE my stepmom.) Though it might not be relevant to this thread, I truly believe she was an NPD. The reason I bring that up is that my mother presented herself as perfect & most other people as inferior. Finding that note & other things that proved she lied to me about all kinds of things…but the most disturbing thing was the fact that my dad may not be my dad, & my stepdad might be my dad. I should have said no way because she told me my stepdad had a vasectomy in 1964. But since he was dead I can't confirm that. That may not seem disturbing to some, but I saw what her moving me 1100 miles away from my dad did to him. But hey, her reputation was left intact.

#40

After her mother died, a close friend asked me to go with her to her mothers home to sort through her things. What I found most disturbing was everything. She had been living alone by then. Children grown and gone. Her husband had died. Her coffee cup was still sitting where it had last been stirred. The food from her last shopping excursion was in the refrigerator. Her clothing still hung in the closet. The last snapshot of her life.

As we moved from room to room we commented on her possessions. Giggled over the girdles. We critiqued her wardrobe. We were puzzled over the various mail subscriptions she had agreed to buy. Questioning many of her decor decisions. I don’t know when it hit me but hit me it did and boy was I greatly disturbed when I realized that one day, my family would be doing the same thing at my house… going through my things, laughing at my decisions (hopefully the colorful items will have been removed as planned with a close friend before my brothers get here ).

It was the snapshot in time and told me a lot about her mother’s life before she died. Thinking about my own snapshot and what it would say about me when the time comes, that’s what I found disturbing.

#41

Large Magellanic Cloud—-Hubble

I always knew that my dad contracted hepatis in Vietnam. I just didn’t know what a large impact it had on my life.

I was cleaning out my dad's mountain of paperwork from the time he entered in the military to the point of his death, roughly about forty-five years of accumulation. I don't think he knew what to do with some things, keep or throw or file. His philosophy: when in doubt don't throw it out, was his standing law for paperwork. There were utility bills from the ‘80s, old titles to cars that had been gone just as long, MAD Magazines, junk mail by the bag full. Organization was never my dad's strong suite. Slowly, I dwindled the paper pile into manageable categories disposing of the obvious garbage. This is where the real work was going to begin; I know needed to read through all these papers and make heads or tails of them.

I separated the categories into folders and placed them neatly in my dad's old wooden ammo box. The box had been his mother's dad, then his mom’s and dad’s and....well, I guess it is mine now. It was odd to look at this box and realize that my father’s life was summed up in one neat wooden box and a small tin box of photos. My father had other things that he had slowly, divested himself of as he was dying. There were still some tools and music cd’s that I was keeping. I had his old guitar for years. He gave it to me when his hands were beginning to become to painful to play. The box contained my dad’s history, his identity.

I need to start deciphering the paperwork somewhere, the task was emotionally daunting. The logical place to start was the beginning, dad's military records. Dad never really spoke about his military experience and I figured it wasn't my business. Now that he was gone, curiosity had me. I want to understand as much about my father as I could. I wanted to try to look at his life through his eyes.

I read a few things in his military records that explained his nightmares. The part of his military record that encapsulated my attention was his medical. I was sure that I was miss reading information, about my father's state of health. There had to be a page missing. I shuffled and resorted the recorders insuring that I had his medical record in chronological order. The change in formatting of documentation logically proved the paperwork was in correct order the first time I read through the file.

I took a break, got myself a cup of coffee, prepared to tackle the file with fresh eyes. I carefully read every entry and the corresponding notated date. I did not miss anything the first-time. I took a deep breath, refilled my coffee cup, went outside and sat under the crisp night sky.

My dad was returned to the states, to a military hospital, in dire shape. His health had improved some, but he was still very ill when discharged. He met my mom during this time, fell in love and they got married. I was born ten months later. When I was six-months old, the doctors at best gave my dad six-months to live. The doctors noted what my dad told them, “Take all your medicine and shove it up your a@#.” The doctor in his scrawling script noted: without the medication he was “greatly reducing his limited projected longevity.” I could visualize my dad telling a doctor this and storming out of the hospital. That happened in spring of 1976. My dad didn’t start getting medical treatment from the VA again, until 1993. My dad died in February of 2017.

I looked up at the twinkling sky with an abundance of gratitude, thanking my higher power for a miracle. I had lost my daddy at almost, forty and half-years old. A forty-year long gift…blessing.

#42

Aunt F was a spinster who was sent out to work the minute she stepped off the boat at about 15 years old. He father took her whole paycheck for years and ruled the whole family with a stern and smacking hand. She learned to hide her money to pay for her modest needs. (A story for another time.)

She was secretive and had her special hiding places around her apartment. The older and more forgetful she became, the more time she spent hunting for hidden things in forgotten places, and forgetting what she was looking for. After she was hit by a car and her dementia and physical condition required a nursing home, her apartment needed to be emptied. My mother and sister and Aunt F’s brother-with-a-car started going through about 50 years of accumulations.

My sister and I spent a lot of our youth with her. She was the only grandmother figure in our lives and we knew her quirks well. Drawers, clothes, cupboards, closets, ancient desk…My uncle insistently wanted to search alone, especially after my sister saw him pocketing stashes of money that he discovered. Since he had a car, and we didn’t, he piled up anything with resale value, including a pedal Singer sewing machine that I coveted. Depression era glass figurines, fish tank, iridescent glass cannister set, the large bulb vase that looked like a flannel shirt, all shoved into uncle’s car.

What he did not take were the dozen or so empty bottles of Old Grandad booze that Aunt F kept under the high, custom made, brass beds decorated with minuet dancing couples. He ended up with the beds.

He also never got possession of Aunt F’s little book where she kept track of all the money she loaned to her family and was never repaid. My mother held onto that as ‘insurance’ when the specific vulture siblings would come seeking their cut of their sister’s meager bones.

RIP Aunt F.

#43

My parents divorced when I was very young. My mom had a very tough time afterward making ends meet and dealing with ongoing domestic violence. She always came through and I was always amazed at her strength. She raised me to be tough and independent (almost to a fault) and to not fear much of anything. I had a tough time after my mother died, I decided to get a new job and move to a different state. It was hard having to let go to much of her personal property, but it needed to be done. One afternoon as I was cleaning out a shed in the yard I found a box of papers. Going through it I found a letter my mom had written to her mother. In the letter she stated that my father had just picked me up for his weekend visit and how quiet it was with me not there. She wrote that she was terrified to be alone and very scared of what was happening in her life, but that she knew it would all be ok….. That letter disturbed me, because I hate to think of my mother feeling that way and not have shared it with me. I loved her with all of my being and would have gone to the ends of the earth for her. If I could have taken away the fear she was feeling I would have done it in a heartbeat. My mother spent so much of her life taking of me, making sure I was safe and free of fear… I wish I could have done the same for her…..

#44

An old photograph.

The picture was of four Sailors in uniform-Cracker Jack Whites as I recall. Their names were on the back. Each of them was an IC….Interior Communications Electrician for those not familiar with Navy rates.

My Dad was an Electricians Mate (EM) when he served. I heard the story many times growing up. Dad’s ship was in port in South Korea loaded with napalm under its wooden deck. Every day, North Korean bombers would fly over and bomb the harbor. Luckily, their aim was poor as just one direct hit would have killed every Sailor on the ship and within a sizable distance around. So when a call went out for volunteers to go ashore, Dad eagerly volunteered.

The shore detail was to string telegraph lines across the peninsula. They carried rifles and were to expect combat. One fateful day, Dad was atop a telegraph pole securing the insulators and wire. A mortar shell hit the base of the pole. Dad was thrown from the pole and knocked unconscious. However, the 4 men at the base of the pole were all killed.

From that episode, Dad suffered fainting spells for the rest of his life. He also suffered “survivor’s guilt” that never left him. He was granted a medical discharge due to his injuries. Sadly, his PTSD was never actually treated.

When I first saw the photo, I figured it was just some buddies from the ship. But when I saw the 4 men were communications electricians, I began to wonder. Were these the 4 men at the base of the pole? I no longer have the photo, but If I ever see it again, I hope to use the magic of the interwebs to find out.

#45

This wasn't in the least bit disturbing, but it was absolutely unexpected.

My father died on Christmas day 2020, just late enough for me, my partner and my son to say goodbye, but too early for my mother to do the same.

Dementia had reduced him from one of the most eminent geneticists on earth- a man who could do anything from lay bricks and concrete to construct a machine to revolutionise DNA chromatography in his garden shed- to a shell of a man who was basically gone without actually being dead. So his passing was neither a surprise nor unmerciful. But he was still a father and a husband and will leave a giant hole in a lot of lives.

Whilst sorting through his vast collection of nutritional supplements, vitamins, pills, powders and assorted quackery, I happened upon an unopened 200ml bottle of pure, pharmaceutical grade m******e, at a healthy strength of 50mg in 1ml.

Not a bad little consolation prize.

#46

Responding as anon to protect my father's identity.

He hadn't passed away yet but he was in and out of the hospital for months preceding his death. We had one particularly bad scare and we needed to find some paperwork for him to sign in case the worst happened.

My sister and I dug through his apartment looking for these papers... we came upon a green briefcase that looked like it was straight out of the 60's. Leave no stone unturned, so we opened it up.

We wouldn't forget what we found in the case...

There were newspaper and tabloid clippings - all of them of attractive women.
That was creepy, but it got worse...

Hair clippings. Blond hair, red hair, brunette... and hair brushes. Some of them were labeled with names or had a small photograph of the "donor" in the little boxes he kept them in.

There was more stuff, but I don't care to detail it as it contains some heavy family "secrets."

The boxes of hair really gave me the heebie jeebies. When I asked my father about them, he got visibly angry and told me we shouldn't be going through his things and he felt extremely violated. I explained we were looking for paperwork, not snooping, and we were just wondering what we had found in the briefcase.

Upon his expiration months later, we cleaned out his apartment and aside from the inordinate amount of rosaries he collected, we didn't find any more weird stuff aside from that briefcase.

#47

What I found wasn’t disturbing in itself, but it did give rise to some disturbing thoughts for me.

After my grandmother died in 1979, the family divided up the jobs of sorting out her possessions. Mine was to sort through years of letters, papers and correspondence to make sure we didn’t dispose of any important documents.

Very carefully hidden away was a letter, a medal and some military insignia. The letter was from the commanding officer of her fiancé, who had been k**led during WWI. It said all the usual things. He fought and died bravely, he was popular, all the usual stuff.

I was vaguely aware that my grandmother had been engaged to a young man who had died in World War I, but he was never real to me until that moment. I suddenly realised that but for the death of this young man, my mother and her five brothers and sisters would never have existed. Their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren wouldn’t be here. There are over 60 of us now who would not exist but for that one death.

It was a spine-chilling thought at the time and even now it makes me think about what a slim thread our lives hang on. And also how lucky we are to be here.

#48

My husband has always had a penchant for cross dressing since he was a teenager. I discovered this shortly after we met, and have always tolerated it. He is not trans-sexual - he has no wish to become a woman full time.

His father died in January this year at the age of 94. He had been married to my MIL since 1954. They had had two sons, and they had slept in separate bedrooms for the past few years due to differing sleeping needs (ffs they were both over 75 when they decided to have separate beds).

Clearing out my FIL’s bedroom we discovered a large collection of female underwear and assorted female clothes..

It looks like it wasn’t only his younger son who liked to cross-dress.

And no, we decided NOT to tell my husband. His mother doesn’t know that her son cross-dresses (although she may have had her suspicions when he was a teenager - but perhaps she just thought it was her husband who was interfering with her underwear). Mum was totally blasé about the underwear etc. so she definitely knew that Dad was “like that”.

#49

When my STEP FATHER died my mother found a locked METAL STRONG BOX in the garage but no key . She asked me if I could open it up, I think she though it might have some cash in it because he was a mean and funny old bugger. Any way me and my siter got to work with HAMMER and CHISEL and eventually got it open. It wasFULL of LADIES USED KNICKERS, most of which had a curious STIFFNESS too them. From corespondence in the box it was obvioud s that the old bugger had been purchasing USED KNICKERS for a considerable time. My mother was bloody Mortified but me and my sister thought it was hilarious Naughty naughty IVOR or what??