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Part 2
A week after the funeral, I started packing because I needed a task large enough to keep the grief from swallowing me. The house had become unbearable in fragments, like a stray crayon on the floor or the half used bottle of bubblegum toothpaste in the bathroom. Terrence’s running shoes were still by the garage door, dusted with the dry earth from his favorite trail.
I started in the living room with cardboard boxes and packing tape, trying to use the same focus I applied to military briefings. When I picked up Mia’s one eyed teddy bear, the whole plan fell apart because it still smelled faintly like lavender detergent. Terrence had repaired that bear badly one Sunday afternoon while Mia sat on the kitchen counter supervising him.
That was the thing about grief, it always dragged old injuries behind it like heavy chains. My brother Tyler had always been the center of gravity in our house, the golden boy whose moods dictated the shape of every family dinner. My mother called him her spark, and my father looked at him with a pride that always made me feel like a guest.
I remembered bringing home an honor roll certificate in ninth grade and placing it on the table near my mother’s elbow. She slid it aside to make room for a gravy boat without even reading it so she could talk about Tyler’s football practice. My father didn’t even look at me, asking Tyler about the college scouts instead of acknowledging my hard work.
At fifteen, I got pneumonia so bad I ended up hospitalized, and my mother called from the car on her way to Tyler’s band showcase. She told me the nurses were taking good care of me and that Tyler couldn’t miss his big audition for my convenience. I stared at the hospital ceiling after we hung up and realized my family would prioritize a garage band over my health.
The worst betrayal involved a stray dog named Scout that I found behind a gas station when I was sixteen. He was a gentle, watchful animal who followed me home and slept with his nose against my bedroom door every night. Tyler hated that the dog loved me, so he faked a scratch on his arm and told our parents that Scout had attacked him.
The next day, I came home from school and found Scout’s bowls were gone and the house was silent. My father was in the garage, and when I asked where my dog was, he just said the animal was taken care of. Something hardened in me that day, a slow turning of water into ice that eventually led me to the Army.
The military gave me rules and a world where effort actually counted for something, which was where I eventually met Terrence. He was helping build wheelchair ramps for a charity in Austin and made me laugh before he ever even tried to flirt with me. He loved me in practical ways, like filling up my gas tank or putting clean sheets on the bed.
I was taping a box shut when the doorbell rang, a sound so impatient and familiar that it made my skin go tight. I looked through the front window and saw my mother’s designer purse before I even saw her face. They had finally decided to show up, and judging by the look on Tyler’s face, they hadn’t come to grieve.
Part 3
My first feeling when I opened the door wasn’t rage, but a deep and immediate sense of disgust. They stood on my porch dressed in expensive resort clothes, looking rested and tan from their time in Hawaii. My mother was wearing cream slacks and pearl earrings, while Tyler wore jeans that probably cost more than my car payment.
“Rose,” my mother said, using that practiced softness she employed when she wanted something from me. “Can we come in?”
She didn’t wait for an answer before stepping past me, her sharp floral perfume cutting through the scent of the funeral flowers. My father followed with his usual heavy walk, and Tyler wandered into the living room like he was meeting me for a casual brunch. I closed the door slowly and told them that their behavior was incredibly rude.
Tyler just snorted and said it was good to see me too while he looked around the room with judgment. My mother’s eyes traveled over the moving boxes, and her face showed the quick disapproval she always had for any kind of mess. She set her purse on the counter and claimed she was heartsick that they couldn’t be at the funeral.
“No,” I said, using a flat tone that should have been a warning to any sensible person.
I walked to the kitchen table, picked up my phone, and held the screen out so they could see the Hawaii photo and the text message. I asked her what context could possibly make my husband and child’s funeral sound like a dreary, cheap errand. My mother recovered quickly and told me that I was being theatrical, which was her usual way of dismissing my feelings.
Tyler flopped down on my couch, the same one where Terrence used to sit while Mia painted his fingernails during movies. He spread his arms out and told me that we needed to talk business, which made me stare at him in total disbelief. My father took the armchair while my mother sat beside Tyler, looking like they were preparing for a board meeting.
“Tyler found a spot in the Pearl District,” my mother explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a great corner location for a sports bar, but he needs a stronger capital position to get it started.”
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