The Funeral
The air was thick with the scent of lilies and something else—something bitter. I could feel the heaviness of the room pressing against my chest as I stood in the back, clutching the edge of my coat. The subdued light filtered through the stained glass, casting muted colors on the polished wood of the coffin. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to steady the wobble in my knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen; we weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this.
“He was a good man,” someone whispered nearby, their voice barely rising above the soft murmur of grief. I didn’t know who they were talking about; maybe they were talking about Troy. I used to think he was good. I mean, we had built a life together for thirty-six years—two kids, countless memories, and a steady rhythm that I thought would continue forever. But life is never so simple.
I glanced over at our son, Daniel, who was standing with his sister, Emma. Their faces were drawn tight, shadows under their eyes, like they were trying to reconcile the world they knew with this harsh reality. I could see my own pain mirrored in their expressions, but I felt like a ghost in the room. How can you mourn someone who you once loved intensely but grew to resent just as deeply?
Memories of Us
It was hard to separate the good memories from the bad. I could almost hear the laughter of our children as they played in the backyard, their giggles mixing with the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. I remembered times when it felt effortless—family dinners, summer barbecues, winter holidays. When we were young, it felt like we were living in perpetual sunshine, holding hands and dreaming about the future.
Troy and I had grown up next door to each other; our families were intertwined like branches of a well-pruned tree. He was my first crush, my partner in crime, and then my husband. We got married when we were both twenty. I thought we had everything figured out. But as the years passed, shadows crept in, unnoticed at first, then glaringly obvious.
Then came the money disappearing, the excuses piled on top of one another like dirty laundry. “Bills,” he said. “I moved it around.” I wanted to believe him. I did for too long. But the truth had a way of creeping up on you—from the drawer, from the hotel receipts, from the whispers around our house.
“You’re just being paranoid,” he said the last time I confronted him. I could still hear the way he scoffed, like I had kicked a hornet’s nest.
Looking back now, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I knew I couldn’t live inside that lie anymore. Maybe it was the first time I found myself standing in the cold light of the kitchen, counting the bills, feeling helpless. Or maybe it was that final, damning conversation that led me to file for divorce. Either way, when we parted, it felt like the floor had fallen out from beneath us. We had been tethered together for so long, and suddenly, I was free. Or so I thought.
