Three years before my dad died, he gave me an updated copy of his will when I was home visiting friends. "Your brother's out, for good," he said. "He doesn't want to talk to me anymore? That's fine. Just remember, Ben. If I become a vegetable, you better pull the plug."

My half-sister had been written out due to prior grievances years ago, meaning I was now executor and sole heir to his estate. But after receiving the news and flying across the country to settle his affairs, then tearing apart his home, I couldn't find his will anywhere.

Word got out and my uncle called to say he had a copy of a former version of the will from when I was 17 and legally unable to carry out his requests. But hour after hour, I discovered my father could not have been more unprepared for his death, and there was no one else to make decisions but me. Burial cost $12,000 and cremation cost $3,000. I didn't think about it too hard; he'd never told me one way or another what he wanted, and the old will didn’t include a request for burial. His house was filthy, and all his devices were locked, which you don't realize is a huge problem until you're stuck with it. I'd tried multiple password combinations, and his iPhone was now warning I'd be locked out permanently if I guessed wrong again.

“Hey, Ben.” The funeral director who I met with called me later that week. “Even though you decided not to do a funeral…” His voice made a point of staying professional. “We could prepare the body for you and a few loved ones so you can come say goodbye. No extra cost.”

My dad’s girlfriend and I were the only attendees. Afterward, I thanked him.

“How are you holding up?" he asked.

Suddenly, the levee broke. “To tell you the truth,” I said, “it’s a fucking mess. We can't find his will. No one knows the passcode to his laptop or phone. He pretty much left me up shit’s creek.” My face flushed as I realized how inappropriate this was. “Anyway,” I said, “thank you again for doing this.”

“Which iPhone did your dad have?" he asked.

 I had it with me, and showed him it. He turned it over in his hands and nodded.

“If you want, we can try to unlock the phone using your dad’s thumb.”

"Do it," I heard myself say.

We walked over to the casket and stood there awkwardly for several seconds, before he finally asked, "Me or you?"

My face felt hot. “You, please.”

When I said “do it,” I had pictured the funeral director doing something akin to the nimble hands of a cobbler, gently unwrapping each of Dad's fingers, which were interlaced and resting on his chest. This ran counter to the relentless cranking and tugging of his hands I was witnessing now. The director rotated my dad's right wrist toward the ceiling and isolated his thumb so that it stuck straight up in the air. With the left arm stiff against his chest, he looked like a football player getting stretchered off the field due to injury who wanted the fans to know he's okay.

"No luck," he said, after attempting several mashes with his shriveled thumb.

“I think his phone has Face Recognition, too?" I blurted out, optimism now growing into desperation.

"Maybe I should do this downstairs," he suggested.

"Do you think it will work?"

"No," he admitted.

I thanked him, but said it wouldn’t be necessary, and left. On Tuesday, I met with the lawyer who filed the old will. He was a stodgy old New Englander who lived in the same small town as my dad, knew him, and hated him.

"Where's the body now?" he barked.

"At the funeral home," I said. "Being cremated."

"You had him cremated?"

"Yes," I said. "Why?"

"Call me old fashioned," he said. "But unless someone explicitly tells me they don’t want to be buried, I don't write it in their will."

I put this and everything else out of my mind on the drive back to my dad's house. All week, people told me I had every right to be sad or angry. But the only honest feeling I had was jealousy, directed towards my siblings, who, having told my father how they really felt when he was alive, now didn't have to deal with any of this. All for a meager inheritance that, I was already certain, would not replenish what it took.