“Just buried my husband, flying home with our daughter at 5:00 p.m. Please pick us up from the airport.”
My sister replied,
“Get an Uber. We’re busy.”
Mom added,
“Sorry, we’re celebrating your sister’s birthday party tonight.”
Dad wrote,
“You should have planned better.”
Brother added,
“Not our problem.”
When I landed with my grieving 8-year-old daughter, we had to take a taxi in the rain.
At home, I found out they posted photos of the party online, laughing and drinking while I was burying my husband.
When I confronted them the next day, my father slapped me hard.
“Stop ruining your sister’s week.”
My mother pushed my daughter down.
“Widows don’t get special treatment.”
My sister threw her drink in my face.
“Get over it already.”
I replied,
“No worries.”
The next morning, what they read in the newspaper made them choke on their coffee.
The funeral director’s voice still echoes in my mind.
“Mrs. Anderson, we’ve completed the service. Take all the time you need.”
I stood alone beside the casket.
My 8-year-old daughter Emma clinging to my black dress.
Rain hammered against the chapel windows.
Three days had passed since my husband Daniel died in a construction accident at his job site.
Three days since my world shattered into pieces I couldn’t begin to reassemble.
Emma’s small hand squeezed mine.
“Mommy, when is daddy coming back?”
My throat constricted.
We’d had this conversation six times already.
“Sweetheart, remember what we talked about. Daddy’s in heaven now.”
“But I want him here.”
Her voice cracked.
I knelt down, ignoring the dampness seeping through my stockings from the chapel floor.
“I know, baby. I want that, too.”
The funeral director approached quietly.
“Ma’am, we need to begin the burial soon. The cemetery closes at 4.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Emma and I followed Daniel’s casket to the grave site.
My parents hadn’t come.
My sister Vanessa hadn’t shown up.
My brother Derek sent a text.
Sorry, work emergency.
The only people present were Daniel’s co-workers, his elderly mother, who could barely stand, and my best friend Nicole, who held an umbrella over Emma and me as dirt fell onto my husband’s coffin.
After the burial, Nicole drove us to the airport.
“Are you sure you want to fly back tonight? You could stay with me for a few days.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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