I stood looking at Kjell.
In three days he would have turned 90. He never got there.
I had been allowed to be with him in the final moments of his life. Now I stood there, knowing he was gone, and with no idea what to do next.
During his last years the bone cancer had eaten its way further and further into his body, taking more and more of his strength. For the last two of them I had helped him intensively with everything practical – the things that still have to work when the body no longer does.
We were not related.
Yet he had written me into his will, without my knowing.
Earlier in life Kjell had been a banker. He was used to order and structure, to documents that mattered and decisions that had to be put in writing. That care showed in his preparations too. Attached to the will was a genealogical report showing there were no other relatives.
He had tried to leave clarity behind him.
But there, at his side, I did not know what the next step was.
What do I do now?
A doctor explained what would happen to Kjell's body and that the death would be registered with the Swedish Tax Agency. I listened and tried to take it in. So something would happen. Someone would take over.
I went home in grief.
And with questions I did not know where to take.
What happens now? What do I have to do myself? What happens automatically? When will the information come? Where do I begin?
I assumed there was a structure. That a death would set an orderly process in motion – one that also guided the person left behind.
I waited to catch sight of it.
The keys, the post, and everything I still didn't know
Between emergency visits and hospital stays I had looked after Kjell's flat. Over the last year I had got into a routine with the bills and the other practical matters.
He had no BankID. No other digital access to his affairs either.
The man who had once worked in a bank now needed help with an everyday life where more and more doors required digital identification.
I had helped him keep that everyday life running and tried to make sure the important things got done.
I had the keys. I had access to the post. I knew parts of his life.
And still I was unprepared for what was waiting.
The information was scattered. I had to find out for myself what applied, who was responsible for what and which steps had to be taken. Every answer could bring a new question.
And all the time there was the risk that I did not even know what I ought to be asking about.
It was 2025.
That stuck with me.
We could identify ourselves digitally, manage our assets from a phone and get information in seconds. But the process I was now trying to understand was built on manual steps, paper documents and the post.
Letters to be sent. Replies to be awaited. Details to be gathered and passed on.
I tried to keep everything in order while I was grieving.
It was the waiting without any overview that wore me down the most. I did not know whether the silence meant the process was moving forward, or that something had stopped because I had missed a task.
I could have followed a clear list.
But first I had to discover for myself what should be on it.
I started writing everything down
Every step. Every reply. Every question without an answer.
At first I did it to cope. I needed to create order and stop relying on memory when my head was already full.
But the notes began to show how much rested on someone actually being there. Someone with the time and energy to search. Someone who could get into the home, open the post and understand which documents mattered.
I had had access to all of that.
What would have happened if I had not had the keys?
If I could not have collected the post at the estate's address? If I had not already been helping Kjell with his bills? If I had stood completely outside his practical life on the day he died?
How would I even have found the beginning?
I knew how hard it was, despite the head start I actually had.
Then the letter came
Eventually I thought I had got through it.
I had worked my way forward, gathered the paperwork and tried to do things right. At last I began to feel the practical side was settled. That I could let go of some of the responsibility.
Then the letter from the Swedish Tax Agency arrived.
As I understood it, the estate inventory could not be accepted. The Swedish Inheritance Fund was named as the sole rightful heir.
But Kjell had written a will.
I was in it. So was the genealogical report showing there were no other relatives. He had documented both his wishes and his family circumstances.
And still the process was not finished.
I had to contact the Legal, Financial and Administrative Services Agency – yet another authority I had never needed to know about, but which now had a decisive role in what I was trying to sort out.
The will had to go there for review and approval, so that the Inheritance Fund's claim on the estate could be set aside in line with Kjell's wishes.
Another contact. Another case to be processed.
And then more waiting.
I had thought everything was done. Now I had to live, once again, with not knowing what would happen or when I would hear.
Okay. What do I do now?
The same question as at his deathbed. Now with more documents in front of me and more authorities to deal with.
That was when I understood how little security there is in simply believing everything is in order.
Kjell had had structure. The will existed. The genealogical report existed. I had tried to follow the instructions I was given.
And still there was a decisive step I had not known about.
For me it was about Kjell. About trying to carry out what he had wanted, when he could no longer explain it himself.
I do not know how many of those inheritances were preceded by unclear paperwork, missing documents or wishes that were never written down. But my own experience had raised a question I could not let go of:
How often are there wishes that never reach anyone?
How often does someone stand there with a document, believing everything is settled, without knowing the steps that remain?
I had been there myself. I knew how easy it was to lack information you did not even know you needed.
The notes became a list of features
With every obstacle it became clearer what I would have needed from the start.
One overview. Information in the right order. Clear word on what was done and what remained. Documents that could be found. Wishes that reached the right person. Help to discover what was missing while there was still time to do something about it.
With my background in technology and digital workflows, I began to see how it could work.
I wanted to use today's digital possibilities to create the clarity I had lacked. Help people prepare, gather and keep their information current. Give the person who one day remains a comprehensible path through what has to be done.
Even when a case had to wait to be processed, it should be possible to understand what you were waiting for, who was responsible and what the next step was.
This is where oldr began to take shape.
Three days
Kjell would have turned 90 three days later.
He had thought about what would happen after him. With the orderliness that defined him, he had tried to prepare for it.
But he could not prepare me for everything I would need to understand once he was gone.
I carry with me the grief of losing him, and the experience of what followed.
That is why I founded oldr.
I want more people to be able to prepare for the people they leave behind. And for the one who comes home after a last goodbye to know where to begin, what happens now and who can help.
Because I know what it feels like to have been there all the way to the end of someone's life.
And still stand completely unprepared for what comes after.