The list in her planner was half a page long, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
She pulled it closer, clicked her pen, and drew in a steadying breath. She would handle this. She always did.
Hillary stared at her planner, pen tapping against the margin, wishing she had someone to lean on. Someone who would pick up half the weight and carry it without being asked. But even if that person existed, she doubted she’d know how to let them. Not after the way she grew up. She learned love was conditional, affection was withheld, and leaning on someone always came with a cost.
Her phone dinged.
For one hopeful beat, she thought it was Murphy. Just the thought of him, of his goodness, his easy humor, the warmth he carried like a second skin, felt like sunlight in this cold, stuffy house. He had been texting her, and while she hadn’t had the courage to text back, they made her smile.
But it wasn’t Murphy.
It was Sasha.
Sasha - Everything good there?
Hillary typed back quickly:
Hillary - Yes. How’s the online stuff?
She waited while the three dots danced on her screen. She hated leaving this mess with Sasha to clean up by herself, no matter how confident she was that Sasha could handle it.
Sasha -Murphy’s still trending. But nothing outrageous.
Hillary’s jaw tightened.
Hillary - Good. Make sure Murphy’s comfortable with it all.
Sasha - Already did,he says he’s fine.
Sliding her phone back into her pocket, Hillary felt irritation simmering beneath her ribs. Murphy was out there gathering attention like sparks on dry grass, and here she was, drowning in the weight of her family’s dysfunction. It wasn’t fair. But she didn’t have the luxury of spiraling, not now.
The doorbell rang, sharp and formal.
She closed her eyes for a beat, inhaled once, then got to her feet. The funeral director had arrived. And of course, no one else in the house bothered to greet him. No one but her.
So she smoothed her skirt, squared her shoulders, and went to do what she always did. Handle it.
"Hello," she said as she entered the sitting room.
The funeral director was polite, his expression composed in the way of a manwho had done this a thousand times. He offered his sympathy as she led him into the parlor, his handshake firm but not lingering.
“We had your grandmother’s wishes on file,” he explained, pulling a neat folder from his case. “I’ve already shared the details with your father. If you’d like, we can go over them now.”
They settled on a date and time with relative ease. Hillary scribbled the confirmation in her planner, the only small relief in a day already drowning in chaos. At leastsomeof it was handled.
When she showed him out, she thanked him for his time, her voice smooth and professional despite the exhaustion pressing behind her eyes.
But then she returned to the table and the list.
Her grandmother’s list.
Pages of instructions written in a spidery hand full of what hymns should be played and in what order. Which relatives should sit together. Which ones mustnotbe invited. The photographs that were allowed on display, and which were not to see the light of day. Even notes on what trinkets she was to be buried with, some petty, some absurd.
Hillary’s throat tightened as she spread the papers out. The weight of it all was crushing.
Sydney sat down beside her, blowing out a long breath. “It’s a lot.”
Hillary pressed her lips together. “Yeah.”
