Mama’s eyes fill immediately, her breath stuttering. Tata’s jaw tightens.
“He’s to me what Aga was to Piotr,” I say, chest trembling. “That kind of once-in-a-lifetime thing you can’t explain, you just know it when it’s there. And I know it. I’m not giving that up. Not again. Not for fear, not for anyone.”
The words come out on a sob, I cover my face with both hands, shoulders shaking. I feel Rafe’s hand hover at my back, not pushing, just there.
Mama rises from her chair first. “Kasia…” she says, voice trembling. She crosses the room, sets her hands on my shoulders, and then she’s crying too. “I just don’t want to lose you, my baby. You understand? Now, at night, I see your brother in my dreams. I can’t—”
“I know,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “I know. But you won’t lose me. I promise.”
Tata exhales slowly, like something inside him has broken open. He stands, walks over, and wraps his arms around us both. “We just want you safe,” he says gruffly, tears catching in his throat.
“I am,” I say, and finally I turn toward Rafe. “Let him try. He wants to help, to love me, to keep me safe. Us safe. Please, let him try.”
That’s all it takes. Tata looks at Rafe and whatever argument he’s been holding dies in his throat. He nods once. “Then come here.”
Rafe blinks, startled, then steps forward into the embrace. Mama’s arms wrap around him too, all four of us crushed together, sobbing and laughing at once.
From the couch, Natalia groans loudly. “Fuckingfinally.”
We all turn. She’s wiping at her eyes with her sleeve, pretending she isn’t. “I thought you were both going to die of longing before you figured it out.”
I laugh through the tears, reaching an arm toward her. “Come here,mala (little one).”
She joins in, muttering something about ruining her mascara, and suddenly we’re one big mess of tears and arms and Polish terms of endearment.
It’s imperfect and loud and beautiful, exactly how our family has always been, and somehow I feel Piotr’s arms around us, too. The grief is still there, but so is this: the promise that love can survive it.
The sky is the color of iron. Cold, heavy, unyielding. The kind of gray that feels permanent.
The church bells toll slow, one after another, and each sound cuts through the air like a blade. The scent of incense hangs thick as breath, and when I look down the pews, it’s all black coats, red eyes, trembling hands wrapped around tissues and rosaries. Rafe stands at my side inhis black suit, quiet and still. He hasn’t let go of my hand once. Every time my fingers twitch, his tighten, steady, grounding.
Piotr’s casket is at the front of the church, draped with white lilies and a folded cloth Mama insisted on embroidering herself. His photo rests above it, his grin wide and unassuming, caught mid-laugh at some joke no one can remember now.
Aga steps up, then leans over the polished wood, Amelka bundled against her chest. She presses her lips to the casket, a whisper breaking against it. Then, with trembling fingers, she touches her mouth, then Amelka’s forehead, the last kiss he’ll ever give her, borrowed through them.
When she reaches Kacper at the pew, she does the same. He mimics her, small hand clumsy and reverent. A sound tears out of me, mainly a sob, but a small prayer laced within it. Mama clutches Tata’s sleeve so hard her knuckles turn white. Natalia, for once, doesn’t have her phone in her hand. The absence of it says more than anything could.
After the funeral Mass, the priest calls the pallbearers forward. Tata, Dominik, cousin Marek, and three men from the garage who used to work for him, friends more than employees. Piotr was never a stranger to anyone. Bright, he wasso damn brightand I was just… used to it. The world has adarknessnow that refuses to leave, without him in it. They lift his weight together, steps measured on the frozen ground and load him into the hearse.
After the Rite of Committal, When the casket settles into the earth, the sound of soil hitting the wood echoes like a heartbeat stopping. Zosia stands between Dominik and Aga, her little hand clutching a white rose. When the time comes, he lifts her up, helps her throw it in after the casket has been lowered, his voice breaking as he whispers something I can’t hear.
Later, when it’s my turn to speak, the microphone feels too heavy in my hands. The crowd is a blur of faces, some crying, some smiling sadly, all waiting for words that don’t exist.
“Piotr would hate all this fuss,” I begin. My voice wavers. “He was a simple kind of man. He wanted to drink good vodka, which, let’s be honest, he did every chance he could. He wanted to love well, and he did, with Aga.”
My throat tightens.
“He wanted to be a hard worker, honest, a family man. Someone people could rely on, and we all know he was. Through and through. Above all, his biggest wish was to be a father.”
I look at Aga, holding Amelka against her chest, her face streaked with tears.
“I’m so glad he got to be one. To Kacper. To Amelka. To all of us, in some way.”
I take the little bottle of vodka from my purse, unscrew the cap, and raise it high.
“Zdrowie Niepijacych, Piotrek Sawadzki.To those who can’t drink with us today.Have fun with Babciu. Tell her we miss her too.”
I tip it back, the burn hitting hard. “I love you, my brother. My best friend.”
