The blood, the tape, the wordshe didn’t sufferkeep circling in my head like a broken refrain. I know they’re lies, the kind of mercy sentences people use when the truth is too harsh.
Dominik kneels beside me at last, resting a hand at the back of my neck. “They’re taking him,” he says. “Piotr’s… they have to.”
I nod, but I can’t make myself look up. I glance down instead at Amelka. Her eyes are open now, unfocused, like she’s looking somewhere beyond all of this. I press my lips to her forehead. “You won’t remember any of this,” I whisper. “You’ll only know how loved he was.”
But the words don’t feel real. They feel like paper in the rain, soft and useless, dissolving before they reach the air. Mama calls a few minutes later. I can’t answer. Dominik does. I only hear fragments:
“Yes, we’re here… Kasia’s with her… No, not yet…”
Aga starts to sob again. I hold her with one arm, the baby with the other, and stare at the wall because it’s the only thing that isn’t moving, isn’t breaking,isn’t gone.
By the afternoon, I’ve stopped crying.Not because it hurts less, but because my body’s run out of water to give it. What’s left is a trembling stillness, like the air after an explosion. Dominik stays withthe children. Zosia has glued herself to his leg. Kacper and Amelka won’t stop crying, as if they already know something’s wrong. Mama, Tata, and Aga come with me to the funeral home.
No one speaks in the car. The road ahead blurs. Gray, endless. I keep my eyes on the lines, on keeping the wheel straight, because if I let my mind wander even for a second, I’ll see that stain of blood that used to be him in that garage again.
Inside, the director greets us with that practiced sympathy, gentle voice, soft hands, eyes that know too much. Pamphlets line the counter: floral options, urns, memorial packages. Words for things no one should ever have to choose. Aga sits across from him, hair pulled back but still damp from tears, clutching a tissue she hasn’t used. He starts asking questions.
“Would you prefer burial or cremation?”
She blinks, silent. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes. Mama starts to answer, then stops. Tata’s staring at the floor, jaw locked, one hand gripping his knee like he’s holding himself together by force.
I take a breath. “Burial,” I say. “He would’ve wanted that.”
The director nods, makes notes. “Location?”
“St. Wojciech Cemetery. He was baptized there. Keep it close to home.”
He keeps going. “Casket style? Viewing?”
Aga flinches.
“No viewing,” I say quickly. “He—he wouldn’t have wanted that either.” My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Simple wood. Polish oak, if you have it.”
The man nods, writing everything down. The pen’s scratch is unbearable.
When he asks for a date, Mama finally speaks. Her voice cracks halfway through. “Sunday,” she whispers. “People need time to come.”
He nods again, kind but distant. The efficiency of it all makes my stomach turn. Aga’s still sitting perfectly still, eyes hollow, body elsewhere. I reach for her hand. It’s ice-cold.
“Hey,” I whisper. “We’re almost done.”
She just shakes her head, lips trembling. “I can’t—” Her voice splinters. “I can’tplan this, Kasia. He was changing the oil. He wassinging.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I know.”
The words mean nothing. Nothing can help this. When it’s over, we sign the papers. I use my neatest handwriting because it feels like the only dignity left. The director hands me a stack of documents and a business card like it’s an act of mercy.
Outside, the January air is unkind, bitter. The sun’s still shining like it didn’t hear the news. Mama leans into Tata as they walk, both of them silent, faces gray.
Aga stops beside the car, looking lost. “I didn’t even pick what he’ll wear,” she says, dazed. “What do I put him in?”
I close my eyes for a second, steady myself. “We’ll find something. His suit from the wedding, maybe? You don’t have to think about that now.”
She nods, still notreally here.
On the drive home, the silence feels heavier. The kids are waiting, Dominik at the door, Amelka in his arms, Zosia pressed against his side. He doesn’t ask how it went. He just takes Aga’s bag, helps her inside, and holds her when she starts to shake again.
I stand there for a moment, watching him, watching them. And I think: this is what love looks like when it’s still breathing through grief,the holding, the not letting go. But inside me, something’s gone quiet and cold, a part of me still sitting in that office, signing Piotr’s name for the last time.
