Grief doesn’t always move like waves. For me, it came like stepping onto missing stairs in the dark — sudden, jarring, and leaving me gasping. Losing my grandmother Catherine was more than losing family; she had been my compass, my anchor, my very best friend. Standing by her coffin, I felt like someone had cut me loose, and I was drifting without direction.
The funeral home glowed softly under dim lights, shadows dancing gently across Grandma’s serene face. Her silver hair had been arranged perfectly, and she wore her favorite pearl necklace, the one I’d seen her polish so many times before special occasions. Just weeks earlier, we’d been together in her kitchen, laughing over tea as she taught me the “secret” to her sugar cookies — a pinch of nutmeg, just enough to whisper, not shout. Now, she was gone, and I was left clutching those memories as if they could keep me afloat.
Neighbors and friends shuffled around me, offering condolences in hushed voices. Mrs. Anderson, who had lived next door for decades, squeezed my shoulder with her wrinkled hand. “Your grandmother never stopped talking about you, Emerald,” she said. “Always bragging, always so proud.” I tried to smile, recalling her apple pies that filled entire streets with their scent, recalling how she would wink and say I had “the perfect touch with the cinnamon.”
But my mother — Victoria — stood apart. Cold. Detached. She hadn’t shed a tear. And as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, something happened that made the air shift. She drifted to the coffin when no one was watching closely, glanced over her shoulder, and slipped a small package into the folds of Grandma’s dress. Her movements were sharp, deliberate, almost guilty. And then she walked away, heels clicking softly, vanishing into the restroom.
Some truths cannot stay buried. And some betrayals carve scars too deep to forgive.
