My mum has died - and every decision I make about her belongings feels wrong | Polly Hudson

In all the talk of the five stages of grief, I don’t recall one of them being spending hours on hold to energy suppliers. Perhaps I misunderstood, though, and that’s entirely what they’re about. This call won’t take long (denial); aargh, are they ever going to answer? (anger); if I hang on for five minutes more, they’ll definitely pick up (bargaining); they are never, ever going to pick up (depression); and I live on hold now – this is my life (acceptance).

You hear the term “sadmin” bandied about, you understand there’s paperwork to do after somebody dies – but until it’s you who has to do it, you don’t realise how much, what it entails or how encompassing it is. My mum’s death has basically become my full-time job. The hours are terrible, the pay is worse and the promotion prospects sobering, to say the least.

Received wisdom is that you should ask your parents lots of questions while they’re still around. For me, this feels increasingly true. There’s so much I now wish I’d asked my mum – namely who her mobile phone provider was and the number of her milkman. I don’t know where the water meter in my own house is, let alone anyone else’s, so it would have been handy if that had come up, too.

I’m lucky my mother died after the introduction of Tell Us Once, the one-stop shop for notifying government departments and council services. But so far my experience is: tell them once, tell everyone else 47 times and prepare yourself for a variety of responses in reaction to the news.

I’ve previously covered the odd sentences people insert in the gap after “I’m calling to let you know that my mum has died,” a sentence that drives home reality sledgehammer-style whenever you hear yourself say it. In fairness, many call centre employees have been empathic and kind. However, this week, one responded: “That’s not a problem,” and I was too stunned to reply with any of the killer sick burns I’ve since thought of.

The DVLA staff, whom I’ve spoken to thrice and counting, did not react. On the last call, I’m afraid I snapped a bit – third time unlucky – and suggested that acknowledging what I’d said in a manner that was vaguely human was perhaps a tactic they could try in future. I was told that this was not policy: they were trained to stay silent. I wonder whether this is true, or just quick thinking.

On top of the sadmin, there’s the stuff. A whole homeful of it. Deciding what to keep and what to donate or – eek – chuck is a battle with nostalgia and sentimentality.

My house is full, but what am I supposed to do with the plates I ate off as a child? The table we sat around every Christmas? My mum’s diary, the old-fashioned, paper variety, full of appointments, meetings and get-togethers it turns out she’ll never attend, in handwriting as familiar as my own? A photo of my parents with nine of their friends, only two of whom are still alive? Here, they’re in their 40s or 50s, on holiday somewhere, laughing and mucking around, looking pretty similar to me and my frie … nope, let’s steer well clear of that, thanks.

Becoming an orphan attempts to force you to face your own mortality, when I would rather pack it away and give it to a charity shop. But as I sit with this picture in my hands for too long, which I’d do even if I didn’t have such a lengthy to-do list, I have to accept that, if I take it home, I’m merely ensuring my son will have to decide what to do with it when his turn comes. The circle of sadmin.

Every decision feels incorrect. Keeping this kind of photo is silly, but throwing away evidence of anniversary parties, minibreaks, school uniforms, long-departed pets, Wednesdays, is worse. These pictures are proof of life. But I don’t need proof: I was there, living it. I remember it well. And, realistically, I’m not going to frame them all, hang them on my walls, turn my house into a shrine to the past. They’ll gather dust in a drawer, letting me off my guilt on a technicality.

Is there a right way to do this? It seems extremely important not to get it wrong.

When my dad died, in 2012, I kept everything he had ever touched – and many things just in case he might have. There was an offcut of string he’d wound up in a precise, careful way that was so unmistakably him that I found it impossible to discard, or even use when I randomly needed a bit of string exactly that length, which would actually have pleased him immensely.

A while afterwards, I read a bedtime story to my friend’s son. It was a book called The Invisible String, which helps children process grief by reminding them they’re always linked with those they love. It was so on the nose, including the title, the parallels too obvious to ignore.

These bonds go well beyond the tangible. We don’t need a tea cosy we’ll never use, a collection we didn’t collect, a painting we wouldn’t have chosen ourselves. The connection is baked into our bones. It would remain even if we didn’t have a single worldly possession. It carries on, regardless.

Gradually, over the years that followed, I managed to do without many of the superfluous items of my dad’s that I’d clung on to. I do wear his watch, even though it stopped working years ago (it’s right twice a day). And I still have the neat little knot of string. Hey, nobody’s perfect.

What if my attitude to my mum’s belongings is all wrong? What if it isn’t a case of now or never? Not getting rid of an object immediately doesn’t mean I’m keeping it for ever; it could be that the lesson here is to give myself a bit of grace. Maybe sometimes it takes a little longer to let go.