25.0 #2
"Such a shame. She was trying to get right."
"I thought they said she died."
"Isn't she an addict?"
Their voices blended into the organ.
Aunt Lena guided me toward the second row. The casket sat under too-bright lights, surrounded by flowers so white they almost looked blue.
I stared at the curve of it, the shine of the metal, the way it shimmered like it was meant to distract from what was inside.
Lena squeezed my arm before slipping into the pew beside me. "You okay?" she whispered.
"Yeah," I lied.
I sat still for a while, hands folded in my lap, watching people drift in.
Cousins I hadn't seen since I was a teenager.
Neighbors I didn't remember. A few church women who looked exactly the same—hair pressed, eyes nosy, perfume too sweet.
They whispered and nodded when they noticed me, the way people do when they want to be seen caring.
Every few seconds, another door opened. Another wave of murmurs rolled through the room. I felt like I was shrinking—pulled tighter and tighter into myself until there wasn't enough room to breathe.
At some point, Aunt Lena nudged me gently. "You can go up if you want."
I didn't want to, but I stood anyway.
Each step toward the casket felt longer than it should've been.
The closer I got, the colder the air felt. I braced myself before I looked down.
The woman inside wasn't my mother.
She had her face, sure—the same cheekbones, the same faint scar above her eyebrow—but everything else was... wrong. The makeup made her skin too smooth, too pale. Her lips were painted a color she never wore.
She looked like she'd been trying to play herself in a movie.
I gripped the edge of the casket. My vision swam for a second. For a moment, I thought I might jump out of my own skin.
She looked peaceful. That was supposed to mean something.
But all I could think was how unfamiliar she seemed—like she'd been erased and replaced with the kind of woman people said nice things about at funerals.
"Rest easy," I whispered.
The words came out flat, almost like I was practicing.
I stepped back, steadying myself, and walked to my seat again. My knees felt weak, but my chest felt... nothing.
People around me kept talking—soft voices, shifting coats, tissues rustling. A few cousins whispered about who showed up and who didn't. Someone's baby cried.
When the pastor finally stepped to the pulpit, the noise quieted into that kind of hush that feels too polite to be holy.
He started slow—words about redemption, about forgiveness, about second chances.
I tried to listen. Tried to let it mean something.
But all I could hear was the way his voice rose and fell, polished and practiced. Like he'd said it all before, just with different names.
Then the choir began to sing.
His Eye Is on the Sparrow.
The notes floated through the room, tender but off-key.
My mother used to hum that song while doing my hair in the living room—back when Dad was still around, before the drugs, before Chris. She'd tap my shoulder with the comb whenever I squirmed, humming between her teeth. I used to hate that song.
But now, sitting there, the memory hit soft and sudden. I could almost feel the pull of the comb again. The warmth of her knees against my back. Her voice, lighter, alive.
I'd forgotten that version of her existed.
For a moment, I thought maybe I'd cry, but it didn't come.
Just a flicker in my chest, gone as fast as it came.
The pastor closed his Bible, and the murmurs started again — a low wave of chatter and movement as people stood, adjusted their coats, and began filing out. I stayed seated until the crowd thinned. Aunt Lena touched my arm.
"You good, baby?"
"I'm fine." The lie came out quiet and practiced.
She nodded like she didn't believe me but didn't have the energy to press.
When I finally stood, my legs felt heavy, my mind somewhere else. I walked out of the church and into the afternoon light. The air was gray, the kind that doesn't know if it wants to rain or not.
I stopped on the steps, blinking at the sudden brightness. Looking outside the ope street was crowded — people talking, hugging, lighting cigarettes, pretending to mean their condolences.
And then I saw them.
Brooks and Alina.
They were standing just off to the side, half in the shade of the church awning. Brooks in a dark suit that didn't quite match the softness in his face, Alina holding onto his hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
The sight of them — together — pulled something tight in my chest.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stepped forward until he was close enough for me to smell his cologne under the damp air.
People were already staring.
Of course they were.
Brooks Whitmore — the president's son, the rising name in politics — standing next to me, next to my daughter who shared his eyes.
It didn't take a genius to connect the dots.
I should've cared. Should've told him to leave before someone pulled out a phone, before whispers turned into headlines.
But I didn't have any fight left in me.
He looked at me carefully. "You okay?"
I nodded, though my throat was too dry to speak.
He rubbed a hand over my shoulder, the gesture soft but grounding. "Alina and I took an Uber here. I hope it's okay we came," he said quietly. "I didn't want you to be alone. I'll drive us back in your car. You don't need to worry about anything."
I didn't argue. Just nodded again.
Alina pressed closer to my side, still clutching the pink flower she'd brought from home. "Brooks and I came to find you."
Aunt Lena appeared a moment later, stepping down the stairs toward us. Her eyes darted between me, Brooks, and Alina — trying to piece together the picture in front of her without asking.
"Well, now," she said softly, forcing a smile. "Aren't you just the prettiest little thing?" She crouched slightly to Alina's height. "I'm your Aunt Lena."
Alina smiled shyly. "Hi."
Lena's eyes flicked to Brooks, then back to me. "You got a good man helping you," she said quietly, not asking, but knowing enough.
I didn't correct her. Didn't confirm it either. Just hugged her tight, breathing in her familiar scent.
"Call me when you get back," she said.
"I will."
She gave my arm one last squeeze before stepping back toward the crowd, swallowed up again by black coats and murmured sympathy.
Brooks reached for the car keys hanging from my hand. "Come on," he said gently.
The three of us started walking — down the church steps, past the people who couldn't stop glancing, through the drizzle settling over the street.
Nobody said a word.
The silence between us wasn't heavy this time. Just steady.
Like an agreement neither of us had the energy to break.
When we reached my mother's house, the sky had gone a pale, washed-out blue. The porch light was still on, even though no one was home to turn it off.
Brooks opened the passenger door for Alina, helped her buckle in, then looked at me across the roof of the car.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
I nodded, though the word didn't fit the way it should.
He didn't say anything else. Just got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
The house disappeared behind us in the mirror — small, peeling, and still full of ghosts.
The car ride home was quiet.
The hum of the highway filled what words couldn't. Streetlights stretched into streaks of gold through the windshield, flickering over Brooks's face as he drove.
Alina fell asleep a while after we hit the turnpike — her head lolling against the window, pink flower still in her lap. I watched her chest rise and fall, small and steady, and wondered how something so calm could exist in the same world as everything else.
Brooks didn't speak. He didn't have to. His hand rested near the gearshift, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from it, but not close enough to touch.
Outside, the sky sank into navy. My reflection in the glass looked older than it had this morning. Not tired—just hollowed out.
Every few miles, he glanced over like he wanted to say something, but the words never made it past his jaw.
By the time we reached Philly, the streets were mostly empty. The kind of quiet that only happens between night and morning.
He parked in front of my building and shut off the engine. Neither of us moved right away.
"She's out cold," he murmured finally.
I nodded. "Yeah."