I emerge from my hiding place only when I’m certain Maxwell is going to stay in Sabrina’s orbit, his predatory gaze temporarily fixed elsewhere. My dress feels even tighter now, the fabric a prison of black polyester cutting into my flesh as I approach the funeral director waiting patiently by the office door.
“Ms. Brewer?” he says, his voice practiced in its gentle neutrality. “If you have a moment, there are just a few final matters to address.”
I nod, following him into the small office that smells of furniture polish and stale coffee. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in a sickly pallor that makes my exhaustion feel like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders.
“Just need your signature here and here,” he says, sliding a white tablet across the desk. “Don’t forget to initial the last three pages.”
My hand moves mechanically across the screen. I’ve been signing so many things for the last week, my signature has become a meaningless scribble, divorced from the reality that each stroke of my finger is another formal acknowledgment that Mom is gone.
My eyes burn from holding back tears, and a dull ache throbs behind my temples. I haven’t had water in hours. Haven’t sat down since the service. My feet have gone from painful to numb in my sensible black heels, and the underwire of my bra feels like it’s cutting into my skin.
“And here are your mom’s personal effects,” the director says, placing a small box on the table.
The box sits between us, unremarkable and devastating in its ordinariness. How strange that a life can be reduced to this—a few items in a container no bigger than a shoebox.
Inside is Mom’s handbag, her silver watch with a cracked face that stopped working years ago, but she kept wearing it anyway. Last, a tube of coral lipstick, the color she put on every morning, even when she was too sick to leave her bed.
“There was a gold wedding ring and a silver bracelet as well,” the director says, frowning slightly. “Did someone already collect that?”
I shake my head, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. “No, but I know where it is.”
Sabrina had asked to borrow the bracelet two weeks ago, while Mom was still in hospice. Said she wanted something of Mom’s close to her. Even though Mom had promised that bracelet to me, I was too busy considering her request to object. I’m pretty sure she has the ring as well.
“Oh, good,” he says with a nod. “The clothes she came in are underneath the bag. Some people prefer to… dispose of those separately.”
I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?” he asks, and I hear the polite dismissal beneath the question. It’s been a long day for everyone.
“No, that’s all,” I say, gathering the box against my chest.
When I emerge from the office, Sabrina and Maxwell stand by the exit, impatience radiating from them like heat. Sabrina’s scrolling through her phone, thumb flicking rapidly across the screen.
Maxwell leans against the wall, his eyes finding me immediately, that same hungry assessment from earlier making my skin crawl.
“Finally,” Sabrina sighs, not looking up from her phone. “I’ve got three hundred new followers from the funeral pics I posted. Grief content really connects with people.”
The casual cruelty of it steals my breath. “You… posted pictures? From Mom’s funeral?”
She glances up, annoyed. “Don’t start. My followers expect authenticity. This is my journey too.” Her gaze drops to the box in my arms. “What’s that?”
“Mom’s things,” I say, tightening my grip on the cardboard edges. “Some of them, at least. Have you seen her jewelry?” I cringe inwardly at the accusing tone.
Clearly hearing it as well, my sister narrows her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I’m wearing it today, as a matter of fact. Kind of you to notice.” She sneers the last part, managing to sound like I’m the one out of line.
Maxwell pushes off from the wall, moving closer. “Need help carrying that? It looks heavy.” His offer sounds solicitous, but the way he licks his lips and waggles his eyebrows most definitely isn’t.
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly, stepping back. “It’s not heavy.”
“Whatever,” Sabrina interjects, sliding her phone into her designer purse. “Listen, about tomorrow. I need you to open the bakery early, like five instead of six. I’ve got a brunch meeting with potential sponsors at nine. And I want to do an Instagram story about honoring Mom’s legacy by being hands-on at the bakery.”
The presumption leaves me momentarily speechless. “Sabrina, you’re not my boss. Mom’s will—”
“Yes, yes, we both own the bakery.” She rolls her eyes. “But you don’t want me there by myself, do you? No, you don’t. Besides, I’m being generous by allowing you to be part of my journey. And trust me, the bakery needs the exposure. When was the last time you posted anything on the bakery’s social media? November?”
“December,” I correct automatically, hating that I feel compelled to defend myself. “And the bakery is profitable. It’s been supporting both of us.”
It’s more than profitable. We have two employees as well. The bakery isn’t struggling.
