“Emily, I’m sorry, but I just can’t help financially right now,” she said.
“I wish I could. But you’re the one who’s always been better at this kind of thing.”
“Fine,” was all I managed to say before hanging up.
Mark found me at the kitchen table later that night, surrounded by brochures from funeral homes.
“She’s not helping at all, is she?” he asked.
“When has she ever?”
So, I did what I always do.
I managed it.
I paid for everything, including the casket with the satin lining, the service at her favorite church and the arrangement of white lilies and pink roses.
I maxed out our credit card and our savings. It was the money we’d been collecting for Emma’s college fund.
Two days before the funeral, Doreen finally called.
“I’ve been thinking about what I could say,” she said. “Maybe I should speak at the service?
People will predict it since I’m the oldest.”
I nearly laughed. Of course. Now she wanted the spotlight.
“Sure,” I said flatly.
“Whatever you want.”
The day of the memorial arrived.
And then Doreen appeared, dressed in an expensive black dress I’d never seen before.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her makeup was subtle but perfect.
“It’s just so hard,” she muttered, loud enough for others to hear.
Throughout the service, I watched Doreen from the corner of my eye. She played her part perfectly. Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was the devoted daughter, overcome with grief.
I knew better.
During the reception at the church hall, people came to provide their condolences and told stories about Mom.
At that point, Doreen accepted sympathy as if she’d been by Mom’s side all along.
We had honored Mom properly, and soon I could go home and collapse.
That’s when Doreen clinked her glass with a spoon, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I’d like to say a few words,” she said.
“I just want to say,” she began, pausing for effect, “that I’m so grateful we could give Mom the goodbye she deserved.
“I did everything I could. I covered the funeral, and I know she would’ve been proud of the way we honored her.”
Excuse me? I thought.
Had I heard her correctly?
I looked around, wondering if anyone else noticed the blatant lie. But people were nodding sympathetically.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. What could I say without causing a scene?
This was my mother’s memorial, not the place for an ugly confrontation.
So, I forced a tight smile and said nothing.
But across the room, someone else was staring at Doreen with wide eyes.
Mr. Wilson, the funeral director.
He had come to pay his respects and, as promised, brought a copy of the final invoice I’d asked him to hand to me quietly. I watched as he glanced from Doreen to me, his brow furrowed.
He approached Doreen instead of me, a leather folder tucked under his arm.
“I just have one little question for you, Doreen,” he said, his voice gentle but clear enough for those nearby to hear.
“Yes?” Doreen smiled.
“Is this yours?” He held out the folder.
“What?” Doreen asked, her smile faltering slightly.
He glanced down at the folder, then back at her.
“The final receipt for your sister. She managed all the payments herself. I just wanted to thank her again.
We rarely see someone manage such a large arrangement on her own.”
The air in the room shifted. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Then, she let out a laugh. “Oh, well… I meant I did everything in spirit, of course.”
But nobody was listening anymore.
The damage was done.
Mom’s friend, Mrs. Benson said: “Your mother would be so proud of you, dear,” she muttered.
Later, as we were collecting the last of the memorial items, Doreen approached me. Her perfect makeup couldn’t conceal how strained her expression was.
“Emily, I—”
“Don’t,” I said quietly.
“Just don’t.”
She stood there quietly before turning and leaving without another word.
