The Billionaire's Matraich

CHAPTER 2

The drive home felt longer than it should have, even though we took the same route we usually did.

Streetlights slid past the windows one after another, and I found myself counting them without realizing I was doing it. My mum sat in the passenger seat, stiff and silent, her hands folded in her lap like she was instructed to stay still for a photograph. My brother leaned against the back door, his school backpack still on, his forehead resting on the window glass. He traced shapes on the fogged window with his finger, wiped them away, and started again.

No one spoke.

I kept expecting my phone to ring. Kept waiting for someone to call from the hospital to say there had been a mistake. That we needed to turn back around. That my dad had woken up. That his heart had started again while they weren’t looking.

The house was the same as we had left it when we rushed to the hospital that morning. My dad’s slippers were still by the door and you could still smell the faint scent of his perfume. A cup of tea sat half-full on the kitchen counter, cold now.

I locked the door behind us.

My mum went straight to the couch and sat down like her legs had finally given up on her. She stared ahead, eyes open like she was looking at something that wasn't there. It felt like she wasn’t really there either. My brother stood in the middle of the living room, his gaze moving between us, waiting.

“When is Daddy coming home?” he asked.

The question somehow made me out of breath.

I sat on the floor in front of him, knees pressed into the rug. He was still in his school uniform, his tie loosened, his shirt rough and untucked from his trousers. He was too young to carry what I was about to give him. I took a deep breath and said

“He’s not coming home,”

He frowned looking confused by my statement. “Did he stay back at the hospital?”

I shook my head slowly. “Daddy is dead Mike.”

There was an immediate silence between us after I said that word.

He looked at me with this strange face, as if I had started speaking a language he didn’t understand. “No,” he said. “You’re lying.”

“Believe me, I wish I were,” I said quietly.

He screamed.

At first, it was sharp and sudden; the sound cut through the room. Then he started crying so loudly like a baby being poked with an injection for their first immunization. I pulled him to myself and held him tight as his tears kept running down on me. This broke me in another way than hearing my dad was dead.

“I want Daddy,” he kept saying. “I want my Daddy”, he cried.

Behind us, my mum made a sound that never quite became a cry. It sounded broken like something tearing slowly.

That night blurred into a series of things I never imagined I would ever have to do or even worry about.

I had to make phone calls to relatives I barely spoke with and some I didn't even know existed until that day. I had to search for their numbers. I was being asked questions I didn't even know what to say or had the answer to. I had scribbled down Names and numbers because I didn't want to forget them. People kept asking what our plan was like I knew. Like there was a plan guide for how to deal and handle situations like this.

“I’ll let you know,” I kept saying.

At some point, someone asked about the funeral.

I nodded like it was just another task on my growing list.

My mum and I visited the funeral home the next morning. It smelled like wood and flowers. The man who spoke to us had these kind eyes and a steady voice, as if this were a conversation he had a hundred times a week. He explained the options carefully.

Dates. Burial plots. Caskets.

Every time the money conversation came up, I noticed my mum stiffen beside me. She stared at the table, her hands against each other, and didn't say a word from beginning to end, just weird sounds at different points.

The gentleman stretched the paper of the estimated budget toward my mum, and she didn't even look at his hand, as if it was in front of her. I stretched out and collected it from his hand.

“I’ll handle it”, I said and they both turned and looked at me with shock. I mean, what option did I have? Leave everything to my unresponsive and suddenly mute mother?

When we got into the car, she didn't even ask me how I intended to foot the bill; she was just mute and continued to stare into the blank space. I wasn't going to let her new behavior get to me; there's so much to worry about, but it hurt. My mum had been detached since we were at the hospital, and I had to be strong for my brother. Everyone was dealing with the news their own way, and I've not even shed a tear because I have to be the strong one, and all the plans and arrangements became my responsibility.

Back at the house, people came and went. Neighbours. Family friends. Women who held my mum too tightly and told her to be strong. Men who shook my hand and told me I was now “the woman of the house” which I mean was right.

I smiled. I nodded. I poured drinks and handed out tissues like I was hosting a mourning reception.

Mike didn’t leave my side. If I walked into another room, he followed right behind me. When I suggested he lie down, he shook his head no

“What if I sleep and wake up and Daddy is still dead?” he asked.

I sat with him on the couch until his breathing slowed down from the exhaustion of walking. After a little while, I heard a snore and turned and saw he had fallen asleep. I felt a bit relieved.

Later, when most of the house had gone quiet, I passed the kitchen and heard my mum whispering on the phone.

“I don’t know how I’ll do it,” she said softly.

“He handled everything.”

I stopped walking and stood slightly behind the door so she wouldn't notice.

“I don’t understand the bills,” she went on. “There are accounts I never knew about thanks to the prenup. I don’t even know where to start.”

I stood there longer than I should have, listening to words that weren’t meant for my ears but settled deep in my chest regardless. Somewhere during the call, I heard the faint clink of glass.

I didn’t go into the kitchen.

That night, when the house was finally still, and all visitors had returned to their homes, I sat on my bed staring at the wall. My phone buzzed with unread messages, a good percentage of which were from Dalton. We were in that delusional train “situationship”. We had been talking for about 8 months, and it just seemed like we weren't “ready” yet, at least I knew I wasn't. With everything that has been happening, I've barely had time to think about him or the fact that I walked out on his girlfriend proposal then ghosted him a week ago.

I couldn't answer him, and I knew he was just trying to be there for me now, but I just wanted to be on my own.

I just felt

empty.

Somewhere between midnight and morning, something inside me shifted.