FOOLISH SENTIMENT

THE UN-MOURNING

What would you expect from a funeral? Tears, tears, and more tears? Well, not for me. I was shocked, to say the least, but emotions, they refused to flow. On a tombstone lay the words, "Kiara, a loving mother, caring wife, and amazing soul." Now, I don't know about the amazing soul part, seeing that I'm not God, but I can definitely dispute the loving mother and caring wife added to the mix. Chris thought as he stood over his mother's grave, holding in the spit he had planned in his mouth.

Now you might be wondering, how can one's mother be so bad that I'd hate her that much? Well, hold on for the ride of your life, and don't dare point fingers at me. If your mom didn't commit suicide after revealing your whole existence was a lie, not to talk about the murder part.

From what I can remember in my childhood, my mom never wanted to see me. Now I understand the look in her eyes whenever our eyes met. She did kill my father, and I'm told that I am the spitting image of him. Imagine knowing that at the age of 40. How am I supposed to react? Maturedly, I guess. Well, guess again. Even after her death, she's still finding ways to mess up my life.

Laying her next to my grandfather is just befitting. Let them continue to fight, even in the grave. To be honest, that part makes me want to laugh out loud, hysterically, but not in public, before I'm termed troublesome. There's already enough of that. I know I am the disappointment in the family.

Also, before you come at me for disrespecting my granddad, he was a piece of s**t as well. Might as well be the reason for all this to happen. Finally, the burial is over now all I have to bear is the loudmouthed people disturbing our family. Talking about family, you would think it would be totally dysfunctional, but just like a bad band-aid doing its job, my father never let us fall off the wagon.

He always tried to bring us close together, and he was really never a bad father... Father, I called him that all my life, and now I know he actually isn't..., my dad. Way to make a 40-year-old man shiver to his bones.

Alfred, the man that all ladies would want, in my opinion, anyways, 'cause even as a guy, I would want him, and somehow knowing he isn't my father makes it easier to say now. Hhhhhh. But on a serious note, he could remarry, he still got it. Growing up, he treated I and my sisters like gold. I felt he treated us fairly, although I'm sure my sisters Ana and Lana would beg to differ; they always felt I was treated better by everyone. I bet they hate me even more, now knowing I'm not even their father's son.

I remember when they were born. My mother took one look at them and turned the other way. Both times! I mean. That on its own must take a lot from you. To look at your kids, your babies, that are cooked for nine months inside you, and be like, "Yeah, no." I guess she felt like giving birth to them was an obligation and not desire. I was seven when Ana was given birth to, and eleven when Lana was given birth to. Even at that time, I already felt I was an adult. Don't worry, you'll soon come to understand why.

"God bless her soul," a random voice said, jolting me away from my thoughts. Oh yes, still at the after-burial gathering, I said without thinking. Coincidentally, locking eyes with my sisters. I could feel immense hatred from them. Not like they ever really liked me much, but now it seemed worse. I mean, I know that they do have a pot to piss in for hating me. Lana for instance, I used to tease her, telling her that Ana was the original, while she was a copy. And no, not in looks, as you may think. But hear me out. Lana is an Ana, with an L in front. Prove me wrong, I dare you. Those were good old days.

My wonderful sisters, Lana and Ana, were two opposites. You would think they were raised in two different worlds. Forget thinking about the same house. I once read somewhere that children from the same house don't grow up the same because of the different phases their parents were in when they were born. That's still a functional family, not mine.

I was needed, not wanted. They were wanted, not needed, so to say. That's why I was preferred in every situation, whereas my sisters needed to always struggle to get what they want, especially what is rightfully theirs. My dear grandad made sure of that, although my dad always found ways he loves his daughters, after all.

Lana was always calm, collected, and an empath. She cared about everyone, at the deterrent of herself. Whereas Ana, ohhh Ana, was the resilient one, or as I'd like to word it, the thorn in my flesh. God, I hate her! She always proved she was better than me each chance she got. Not to lie, she is, though.

She's honestly almost perfect. She's smart, tall, long, dark, brown hair, and always loud and sharp. The go-to woman. She currently manages the company, although I own it. That sounds huge, but it's all just by name. Something my granddad Henry made sure of. Honestly, I'm glad she's there. It's a kind of kill a bird with two stones. No, kill two birds with two—no, one stone! Yes! Kill a—kill two birds with one stone. He rots in his grave, and I am a free bird.

Closing the door on the last guest, I looked to my right, and the entire real family was there, all majestic. Lana sat in a beautiful black short gown with her white hair just hanging above her shoulders. I think it's called a bob. I'm sure she dyed her hair that color so she could be totally different from her overbearing, perfect, beautiful sister. The only loud form of rebellion I have ever seen her do. I was about to head up when my father called me. Oh, I mean Albert called me.