The silence of a Toronto winter morning is heavy—the kind that settles over the city after a night of freezing rain, when the snowbanks are crusted with gray and the sky hangs low and metallic. You can hear the hum of the furnace through the walls, the occasional hiss of a passing car on slush, but otherwise the world feels padded, insulated, distant. The silence on the phone, though—my sister’s silence before she spoke—was heavier still.
I had my coffee mug halfway to my lips when the call came in. The display simply said “Glenda.” No emoji, no exclamation marks like she usually added when she wanted something from me. Just her name, stark and simple against the gray morning light filtering through my kitchen window.
I pressed accept and held the phone to my ear, already feeling a knot form in my stomach. Glenda never called this early unless something had gone wrong—or she needed something. “She’s gone.”
Her voice was flat, practiced, as if she’d been rehearsing those two words during her drive to wherever she was calling from.
Papers rustled in the background, and I could hear the faint murmur of other voices—an office, maybe, or a lobby. “Diane, did you hear me?” she continued quickly, as if ticking items off a checklist. “Mom passed away at four this morning.
The facility said it was heart failure. Very peaceful. She didn’t suffer.”
For half a second, everything inside me stilled.
My mind didn’t blank the way people say it does in moments of shock. Instead, it sharpened, like camera lenses snapping into perfect focus. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, the cold granite solid beneath my palm.
“Heart failure?” I managed. “When did they call you? Why didn’t anyone—”
Glenda didn’t wait for me to finish.
“I’ve already handled the legalities,” she said, her tone shifting into what I recognized as her business voice—brisk, efficient, brooking no questions. “Since I have power of attorney and the updated will Mom signed last month, I’ll be taking over the Richmond Hill property and managing the investment portfolio. There’s a blue envelope in the mail for you.
Consider it a gift from me. A generous one, actually. Don’t call me—I’m busy with the estate arrangements.”
The way she said it—”I’ll be taking over”—like she was discussing a corporate acquisition rather than our mother’s death.
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