Where you are
You got the call, or you made it. There is a date now. Somewhere between four and eight weeks out, a room is waiting.
And there is a house. Fifty years of a house. A garage you have not fully seen since you were seventeen. A basement with boxes nobody has opened since the last move. Closets full of clothes that fit a person who was a different size and a different age.
You have a job. You may have children. You may have siblings who are helpful, or siblings who are not, or siblings who are helpful in ways that create more work.
And underneath all of it, the part nobody says out loud: your parent is losing their home, and you are the one taking it apart.
Most people start in the wrong place. They start with the biggest, most emotional room, on the first free Saturday, with no plan and no boxes. Two hours later they are sitting on the floor reading letters, and nothing has moved.
There are things in that house that cannot be replaced and cannot be recovered once they leave in a bag — discharge papers, savings bonds, deeds, policies, keys to boxes at banks nobody remembers opening. There is a sequence that protects those. Almost nobody knows it, because almost nobody does this more than twice in a lifetime.
There are also things you believe are valuable that are not, and things you would discard that are. Families routinely expect a dining set to carry the cost of the move. The market has moved. Knowing this in week one changes how you spend every hour after it.
This guide is that sequence.