Chapter 2 - The Currency of Grief
Vanessa let out a single, sharp laugh that sounded incredibly ugly in the sacred space.
“Finished?” she repeated, her eyes flashing with theatrical outrage. “Emily, you walked away from this family ten years ago. You don’t get to show up at Mom’s funeral in some cheap, off-the-rack black dress and act like the grieving, heartbroken daughter.”
“My dress is not the issue here, Vanessa,” I replied, my tone deliberately flat.
“Oh, it absolutely is,” she snapped, stepping closer so I could smell her expensive perfume. “Everything about you is an issue today. Your fake tears. Your fake, pathetic grief. Your fake concern. You came back today for one reason only, because you heard there was money.”
A soft, scandalous murmur ran through the crowded chapel like a sudden breeze.
There it was. She had said the quiet part out loud. The word everyone in the room had been waiting for: Money.
Richard masterfully lowered his eyes, adopting a posture of deep, fatherly shame, pretending to be utterly embarrassed by the confrontation while making absolutely no effort to stop it. My uncle Paul, sitting in the front pew, nervously cleared his throat but kept his mouth firmly shut. Aunt Marjorie stared intensely at the carpet, suddenly fascinated by the floral pattern. Even Pastor Helen, a woman who preached about family unity, looked away toward the stained-glass windows.
Vanessa took another aggressive step closer, invading my space.
May you like
“You were never there when Mom needed you,” she declared, projecting her voice so the back rows could hear every syllable. “I was the one who took her to the oncology appointments. I handled the hospice nurses. I sat for hours planning this funeral. I held her hand when she took her last breath!”
My fingers tightened around the small, worn black clutch in my hand. Inside that purse was a single, folded piece of paper. It was the very last letter my mother had ever written to me. Vanessa did not know it existed. But Richard did.
