He passed a few days ago, and my friend, who is a more functional and capitalism-engaged adult than I, is now having to grapple with being an executor, while also cleaning out the very recently in-motion life of his mostly-family-estranged dad.
The place is pretty big, decently modern, has a spa bath, that kinda thing. Sadly, smelt like a urinal both due to the passing, and also due to the dad's prior incontinence issues, but it was bearable.
But it's hard not to feel a bit like one of those TV crime show fictional forensic analysts casing a house. Had the black gloves on, respectfully rifling through someone else's life with none of the deft caution one might have if the owner were able to catch you. Constantly finding things and calling out '[NAME]? You're gonna want to see this.' And presenting a photo album found at the back of a linen closet, or a strange, old, heavy-duty enterpise/corporate laptop in a steel briefcase in the shed, or an internal hard drive just squirrelled away - no labels, no nothing.
An interesting day, for sure.