After that, the house filled with casseroles, lilies, and murmured condolences. I barely slept. Food tasted like cardboard. Most days I felt detached from my own body, like I was watching someone else’s tragedy unfold.
Eight days later, my father married my aunt.
Not slowly growing closer. Not leaning on each other over time. An actual wedding — vows, rings, cake, guests.
My aunt Corrine — my mother’s sister — had sobbed louder than anyone at the funeral. She’d clutched my hands and whispered, “We’ll get through this together.”
The days that followed blurred together — casseroles, sympathy cards, wilting flowers. And my Aunt Corrine crying louder than anyone.
“We’ll get through this,” she kept saying. “I promise, Tessa.”
Apparently, she meant with my father.
Corrine was my mom’s sister. At the funeral, she wept dramatically and clung to me in the kitchen afterward, repeating promises of strength and healing. But three days after we buried my mother, her manicure was flawless — glossy pink, freshly done.
