Chapter Three: The Last Goodbye
819 Words
The day of her father’s funeral felt unreal, like Sandra was moving through someone else’s life. The sky was too blue, the sun too bright. Nothing matched the heaviness in her chest.
When she arrived at the church, she froze.
People—hundreds of them—stood gathered outside. They filled the stairs, the sidewalks, even the road. The small church she had booked looked like it was bursting at the seams, overwhelmed by the sheer number of lives her father had touched.
It hit her then just how loved he truly was.
She should’ve felt comforted. Instead, the sight made the ache in her chest twist even deeper.
Inside, every seat was taken. People stood along the walls, some even outside the windows, just to be part of his farewell. A man didn’t need wealth or trophies to measure his worth—he needed hearts he had changed. And her father had changed many.
But among the sea of faces, something else caught Sandra’s eye.
A figure standing across the road. Leaning casually against a wall.
Her old dealer.
Her stomach dropped.
Her hands began to shake.
The cravings she had fought so desperately to bury clawed their way up her throat. She felt it—the void, the darkness, the familiar whisper promising numbness. Just one hit. Just one to get through the pain. One to breathe.
Her breath quickened. Her palms got cold.
But then… she heard it.
Her father’s voice—clear as day inside her head.
“You’re better than that, baby girl. You’re stronger than that.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
No. She would not fall today. Not today. Not at his funeral.
---
Everything went smoothly until it was time for her to speak.
Sandra’s legs were like jelly as she walked to the front. The microphone felt too heavy in her shaking hands. Hundreds of eyes watched her, waiting, but all she could feel was the empty space where her father should’ve been.
She swallowed hard.
Her voice trembled as she began.
She spoke about the man he was, the love he had given her, the way he could make anyone feel like they mattered. She shared his quirks, his stubbornness, his soft heart hidden behind toughness. She spoke until her throat burned.
But she didn’t say what she really wanted to say—how she wasn’t ready to live without him. How she felt like she had lost the only person who truly understood her. How she wasn’t sure she would survive this.
Instead, she forced a smile through her tears as she shared one of their inside jokes.
“When my dad and I saw ugly people,” she said, voice cracking, “we used to joke that they’d make an ugly corpse one day.”
Some people gasped. Others shot her confused, judgmental looks.
But a few—those who knew her father well—burst out laughing.
“So, Dad…” she said, looking straight at the casket, “…at least you’re not an ugly corpse.”
The room erupted into awkward laughter—some offended, some relieved, some grateful for a moment of realness. Sandra pushed through the rest of the speech, listing all the nicknames he had given everyone. A few people were clearly irritated, but most smiled through their tears.
She said everything she could.
Except everything she needed to.
When she stepped down, her knees almost buckled from the weight of unspoken grief.
---
His favourite song began to play as a slideshow of photos lit up the front wall. Memories flickered—him holding her as a baby, teaching her to ride a bike, dancing with her in the kitchen, laughing with the kids, hugging her during the darkest days.
She felt every picture like a punch to the chest.
And then it was time.
The final walk.
Sandra watched as the pallbearers lifted the casket and began carrying him toward the hearse. Her breath hitched, her vision blurred, and something inside her snapped.
She rushed outside, following close behind, and when they slid the casket into the hearse, she collapsed.
Her knees hit the pavement with a painful thud as a scream ripped from her throat, raw and broken. She cried like she never had before—loud, uncontrollable, desperate. Years of love, loss, fear, and longing pouring out all at once.
For a moment she didn’t care who saw.
She didn’t care about being strong.
She only cared that her father was leaving her for the last time.
She forced herself to stand, wiping her face with shaking hands. She tried to breathe, tried to steady her heart.
Just get through this, she told herself. Just get it done. Then you can go home. Then you can fall apart.
She walked toward the car, body heavy, steps slow.
The world kept moving.
But Sandra felt like hers had stopped.
- Writer
