CHAPTER 3
1143 Words
The next morning came whether we were ready for it or not.
I was up before everyone. I couldn't sleep well, but luckily, I was able to catch a little. My body ached from all the walking around yesterday. I went to the kitchen, fried up some eggs while waiting for the toaster to bring up the last set of toasts I had put in there. I set up the table and dished out everyone's plate even though none of them were out of their rooms. For a brief moment, I stood still, then everything suddenly rushed back at once, replaying in my head from the house, the spot he dropped, the ambulance. The hospital. The wait in the waiting area. The doctor delivering the news. The drive home.
My Dad was really gone.
The house smelled like flowers. Different kinds that we've received from guests paying their condolences. The smell filled the hallway, the living room, and even the kitchen counter. Someone had opened the windows, but not long enough to let it all out. The scent was thick like we were trying to get rid of a rotten smell.
I walked to my brother’s room to wake him up for breakfast, but he was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at the picture frame of him and Dad.
“Come and have breakfast, today will be a long one” I said.
I stretched my hands to him, and he held them as he got up and followed me to the dining table. Mum was already sitting, hitting her fork on the plate but not actually picking up anything to eat. Mike sat down and I poured him some tea in his cup. After some time, my mum stood up
“I want to go get ready” she said as she went into her room. She didn't touch her meal. My brother went into his room after he cleared his plate, I did the dishes and went into my room to get ready for the funeral.
After a few hours had passed, everyone was out of their rooms, and we were all dressed in black. I had to help Mike with his crooked tie. The black trousers and white shirt made him look smaller somehow.
“Do I have to wear this?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I said, kneeling in front of him to straighten his tie. My fingers trembled, and I had to slow myself down.
“Why?”
“Because today matters,” I said.
He frowned. “Is Daddy coming back today?”
I hadn’t expected that question, even though I should have.
“No,” I said gently. “Today is… a goodbye.”
He stared at the floor for a long moment. Then he nodded once, like he was agreeing to something he didn’t fully understand. We headed out to the service venue.
The service came in pieces.
I remembered faces more than words. The screeching sound of chairs against the floor. Someone is coughing near the back. A woman is blotting her eyes with a tissue already soaked through.
People kept touching me. My arm. My shoulder. My back. Each touch came with a quiet apology or a murmured sorry. I nodded automatically, my body responding even when my mind didn’t.
My mum stood beside me the entire time, her arm linked through mine. Every so often, she leaned into me, her weight heavy and unfamiliar. She cried without sound, tears streaming down her face. Somehow, that felt worse than if she had been loud.
When the coffin was lowered into the ground, something inside my chest finally broke open.
This was real. Permanent.
There would be no version of life where Dad came home after today.
Tears ran down my cheeks for the first time as people departed the cemetery and I remained. I felt a hand lock between my fingers, it was warm and familiar, I looked up, and it was Dalton, and in that moment I hugged him tightly, and I wept, wailing continuously and not letting him go like I was afraid he'd disappear too if I did.
He handed a tissue over to me and I cleaned myself up.
“You came” I said
“Of course I did, why wouldn't I?”
In that moment, I felt relieved like a weight had been lifted. I guess I just needed to cry. It was really comforting to see Dalton.
Afterward, people lingered. They always did. Voices stayed low. Conversations stumbled along. Someone pressedan envelope of money into my mum’s hand. More than one person told me my dad was a good man, as if that could soften what had happened.
My brother was tugging at his jacket when two men approached us.
They waited until my mum was seated, until my brother was distracted with a cousin’s phone, before introducing themselves. Their tone was calm and professional, like this was just another appointment.
“We won’t take much of your time,” one of them said.
I didn’t like the way he said it.
They spoke carefully. Outstanding loans. Existing balances. The paperwork my father had signed years ago. Words like collateral and repayment floated through the air, sharp and unfamiliar.
The second man explained that the house had been used as collateral. That nothing needed to be done immediately.
My mum’s hands shook in her lap.
“How long do we have?” I asked.
“About twelve months,” he said. “That’s the grace period before any further action.”
A year.
It sounded long until I broke it down into months. Weeks. Days.
That evening, after everyone had finally left, Dalton drove us home. He stayed behind till everyone left and we were ready to head home.
The house felt too big and too quiet. I spread the papers that the men gave us on the dining table and sat down in front of them, reading each line slowly, my head beginning to ache.
Numbers stared back at me, dates circled in red. I recognized my dad's signature down the left side of the document.
My mum stood near the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself.
“He never told me,” she said softly. “I didn’t know about any of this.”
“I know,” I said, looking up at her swollen eyes. I could see the distress in her eyes and I felt sorry for her.
Fear crept in slowly. Not panic. Not yet. Just the deep understanding that something had changed, and there was no going back.
I stayed at the table long after bedtime, reading until the words blurred together.
Sometime between night and morning
, it hit me.
Grief wasn’t just painful.
It was expensive.
And we couldn’t afford it.
- Writer
