TorrieThe worst day of my life actually turned out to be three.
The past few days I’ve moved to my room and slept. I’ve eaten what Maria Fernanda’s brought me, responded when spoken to and slept whenever I could.
Whenever I sit up, memory smacks me back down under the covers: Papa’s parchment face, Laurenz’s squinty eyes.
Whenever I try thinking of anything, the gut-wrenching fact returns: his last minutes were spent with the one woman who didn’t deserve a second of his time. That my Papa couldn’t even be permitted to die in peace. That that is a wrong that can never be righted.
It seemed this black repetitive clench of a day would continue forever, until, finally, she asked it. The question I’ve been dreading.
“The funeral is in a few minutes. Will you go?”
Her question shakes me aw
