"Your thea and theo…" my mum said, voice breaking. "They’re moving to a nursing home next week."
She was referring to my aunt and uncle, both in their 80s, and who had been like a second set of parents when I was growing up. And to my surprise, the news hit me harder than I had imagined. As I drove away from Mum’s house, the memories came flooding back. And soon, so did the tears since I knew an era was ending.
After emigrating from Greece, Mum and Dad settled in a newly-established Canberra suburb in the 1960s. It was once on the city’s outskirts, but is now considered a highly-sought inner suburb. Dad’s younger brother built a house just two streets away from ours. The floorplan was almost identical, and so was the construction and fixtures. He lived there with my aunt and cousin, who was also an only child, like me.
My aunt and uncle’s house was the first one I had known outside of my own. At times, it felt like I was entering a parallel universe
My aunt and uncle’s house was the first one I had known outside of my own. At times, it felt like I was entering a parallel universe. My parents took me there often so that the two dads could smoke cigarettes and share betting tips, the mums could gossip and cook, and the two young cousins could have some company. Despite there being a six-year age difference, we got along most of the time. Some of my very first baby photos are in that backyard. My aunt and uncle owned a camera, while my family didn't.
As I got older, I was soon riding my BMX bike to my aunt and uncle’s house on my own. I went to spend time with my older cousin, who was now a rambunctious, rebellious teenager. He was learning the drums and taught me about music, letting me pour over his LP vinyl record collection for hours, studying the big glossy covers and reading the lyrics inside. My cousin had a complete World Book Encyclopedia, and I would often borrow volumes to take home and read. He also had an Atari video game console, and I was obsessed with playing games like Asteroids, Berzerk and Night Driver.
But I also adored the affection and love my aunt showed me. She always had delicious home-cooked food on offer, Greek meatballs and pies and sweets. And she made her own pastitsio with creamy béchamel sauce. My mum didn't even do that.
My aunt soon became a confidant, an advisor, someone with whom I could share my thoughts. My aunt was like my mum, and yet not my mum, which was very important. We often sat and ate and talked at her small kitchen table on Saturday afternoons. My uncle was usually at the betting shop with my dad, while my cousin was in his garage studio practicing drums or out with his mates cruising in his 1976 Mitsubishi Gallant. And to my aunt, I was a reminder of what her son once was: more innocent, less adult, and content to still be a kid and accept the love and attention of the previous generation.
Peter's mum and dad dancing with his uncle and auntie. Source: Supplied
But those days soon disappeared. My cousin started working, cut his big hair and got married, and became a dad, and so did I. Meanwhile, our parents aged and succumbed to illnesses and infirmities. , leaving my mum alone in her home of 60 years. My uncle kept having car accidents and getting lost and eventually gave up his driver licence, while my aunt’s body became hunched-over and riddled with osteoporosis. With my aunt and uncle unable to look after themselves anymore, the decision was clear.
I felt deeply sad for my cousin, my quasi-brother, who was both emotional and exhausted by the process. I knew it was his parents needing to leave their long-term home, not mine. But it still felt like my parents. In my mind, my aunt and uncle and their family home were inseparable. My dad had been fortunate to see out his days at home, while my mum, who is about to turn 90, plans to do the same. As hard as it was some days, it was still a blessing to live in your own home where life was familiar and you had all your memories.
I was 24-years-old when I found out my mum and dad were actually my aunt and uncle, and that I had been adopted as a baby.
I was 24-years-old when I found out my mum and dad were actually my aunt and uncle, and that from my mum's brother and his wife in Greece. At that moment, the connection with my aunt and uncle who had always lived around the corner suddenly made a little more sense.
I took my mum and to visit my aunt and uncle on their last weekend in their home. I wanted to create a final everlasting memory, a ray of light in amongst all the darkness of ageing and disease and death. Mum herself had just been released from hospital following some eye problems, and was happy to sit and share her latest medical trauma with my aunt while her grandsons ran around laughing and wrestling and squealing. It was perhaps the most energy the old house had seen in years. I couldn't help but notice the two large suitcases that sat in the hallway.
My uncle didn't want to go to the nursing home, and was himself teary at the thought. But he was going for his wife of 60 years, who desperately needed assistance that he just couldn’t provide. Since the death of my dad, I had felt even closer to him. He was Dad’s only remaining sibling out of six, and a reminder of the man that I missed every day in my heart.
"Let the boys take whatever toys they want," my aunt told me. "After this weekend, there won't be another chance."
‘Let the boys take whatever toys they want,’ my aunt told me. ‘After this weekend, there won't be another chance.’ Source: Supplied
It was the brutal truth that I already knew, but still pierced me like an arrow. I was grateful for all the times I had been able to take my sons around to play. But the next time we saw my aunt and uncle, they would be in unfamiliar surroundings. My boys ended up souveniring a big activity cube with music and lights and long Tonka fire truck made of real metal that my cousin had once played with. It brought a heartfelt smile to my aunt’s weary face.
I hugged her warmly as we all left, with promises to visit her again soon. It was the end of something significant, that was undeniable. But it was also a new beginning.
Peter Papathanasiou is author of and . His debut novel The Stoning is being published in 2021. Follow him on and .
