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Chad and Rachel peeked out from behind me, their wide eyes taking in the scene unfolding before them.
Brenda opened her mouth to retort but thought better of it as she took in our united front. She gathered herself with haughty dignity before turning on her heel toward the door.
“Don’t bother coming back,” I called after her. “We’ll manage without you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mila
A gray veil of sorrow draped over the day, matching the heavy hearts of those gathered. People murmured condolences, their voices hushed against the backdrop of a soft drizzle that kissed the grass around Dad’s freshly dug grave. I stood there, trying to absorb the reality, feeling the cold mist seep through my black dress.
Cass stood beside me, a silent sentinel. His hand found mine, a warm anchor in the chill of the morning. His thumb brushed over my knuckles in a rhythm that whispered reassurances I struggled to believe.
“He was a good man,” someone said behind us, their voice snagging on emotion.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Dad had been more than good; he’d been my hero.
The pastor cleared his throat, stepping forward with a small book clutched in his hands. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Theo Johnson,” he began, his voice steady but kind.
I squeezed Cass’s hand tighter, trying to stem the tide of memories that threatened to break through my composure as the pastor gave his speech. Dad had been all that and more; his absence felt like a chasm within me.
Cass leaned in closer, his presence a comforting weight. “He’d be proud of you,” he murmured so only I could hear.
Tears blurred my vision as I listened to friends recounting tales of Dad’s warmth and humor. They spoke of his dedication to Mom’s legacy at the community center and his unwavering love for his children. With each story shared, it felt like we were stitching together pieces of Dad’s tapestry, creating a picture of his life that would hang in our hearts forever.
A rustle of whispers fluttered through the gathered crowd as Brenda, clad in an overly somber dress and a veil that obscured too little, made her way through the rows of folding chairs. Her presence was like a stone dropped into the still waters of our grief, sending ripples of discomfort across the faces of friends and family who knew the tangled threads of our history.
Chad gripped my hand tighter, his small fingers digging into my palm, while Rachel’s eyes widened, her gaze flickering between Brenda and me. I gave them both a slight nod, urging them to embrace calm over chaos. “She’s here to say goodbye too,” I whispered, though it felt like vinegar on my tongue.
Brenda’s eyes met mine from across Dad’s grave, a hint of challenge flickering in their depths before she lowered her head in a show of mourning. It was clear she understood her place here—at the periphery, an orbit away from where Dad’s love had kept us warm.
As the service concluded and people began to disperse in hushed tones, Brenda approached, her steps hesitant yet deliberate. I braced myself for the encounter as she stopped before us.
“Mila,” she began, her voice brittle like thin ice. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words hung awkwardly between us. I studied her face, searching for any trace of genuine sorrow but finding only a well-rehearsed mask. “Thank you,” I replied, my voice steady despite the storm beneath my ribs. “He was loved by many.”
Rachel and Chad said nothing, their eyes fixed on the sodden ground as if it held answers to questions they were afraid to ask. I placed a protective arm around each of them, feeling their shoulders tense under my hands.
“I know things have been… difficult,” Brenda continued, her eyes darting away from mine. “But Theo was my husband.”
Her claim hung in the air, a fact none could dispute yet one that carried little weight in the currency of our shared grief. “Yes,” I acknowledged with a curt nod. “He was.”
We stood there for a moment that stretched too long—two figures bound by circumstance but divided by unspoken truths. Finally, Brenda offered a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes and turned away, retreating to the edges where she belonged.
As her silhouette grew smaller against the backdrop of tombstones and gray skies, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. We were still standing—me, Chad, and Rachel—united not just by blood but by the love Dad had instilled in us. It was that love that would guide us through the days ahead, with or without Brenda’s shadow looming over us.
The world had narrowed to this singular, heart-wrenching moment—the three of us standing before Dad’s casket, the air heavy with finality. The glossy wood seemed too pristine, too impersonal for a man whose hands had always been stained with paint or dirt from his latest project.
“Go ahead, Chad,” I urged softly, nudging him forward.
He stepped up, his small hand trembling as he placed a well-worn baseball glove atop the casket. “You promised we’d play catch again when you got better,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I’ll still practice, Dad… for you.”
My throat tightened as I watched him return to my side, his eyes awash with a sorrow too profound for a ten-year-old.
Rachel moved next, clutching something small and delicate in her hands. She leaned in, whispering so quietly I couldn’t catch the words. When she pulled back, a faint glimmer caught my eye—a tiny dancer from one of those music boxes Dad had given her on her sixth birthday. It was her treasure, one he had painstakingly fixed countless times just to see her smile.
“He loved watching you dance, Rachel,” I said as she slipped her hand into mine. She nodded silently, tears spilling over her lashes.
