Chapter 3
Alina
The reception finally thins as the afternoon stretches into evening, mourners drifting away with murmured condolences that sound more like relief now that their social obligation is fulfilled.
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.
“Have you told Molly and Corey?” I ask, already knowing she hasn’t.
“Nah,” Sabrina sing-songs. “They’ll just want extra pay if they have to come early. Let’s not inconvenience them.”
I can’t even form words as I look at my sister. She’s… this… ugh. Why can’t I stand up for myself? Tell her to go to hell? Or better yet, that I’m not opening sooner just because she wants a photo op.
I open my mouth to tell her exactly that. But what I actually say is, “Fine. I’ll be ready to open the doors at five.”
“Good,” she nods. “And wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re about to burst out of it. My followers expect a certain aesthetic.”
Maxwell’s gaze slides over me again, lingering on my chest, my hips. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Some of your followers might appreciate a more… substantial presence.”
Sabrina smacks his arm, but she’s laughing. “Behave,” she says, the word a playful warning with no real rebuke. “Alina’s too sensitive for your teasing.”
It’s not teasing. We all know it’s not teasing. But I say nothing, just clutch the box tighter, wondering if my ribs might crack under the pressure of everything I’m holding in.
“Can we go now?” Sabrina asks, already heading for the door. “I’m starving, and there’s that new place on Lakeside I want to try.”
Stepping outside, the February wind cuts through me like it’s searching for bone, but I barely register the cold. Ice crystals sting my face, carried on a wind that smells like snow and exhaust.
The parking lot is nearly empty now, just three cars remaining; Sabrina’s sleek Audi, my ancient Honda with the dent in the passenger door, and the funeral director’s sensible sedan.
Sabrina heads straight for her car, Maxwell following close behind her. I trail after them, watching as he opens her door with exaggerated gallantry, his hand lingering on her lower back as she slides into the driver’s seat.
He circles to the passenger side, but before getting in, he looks back at me standing alone in the center of the parking lot, my mom’s life condensed into a cardboard box in my arms.
The February night closes around me, the cold seeping through my coat. In the distance, a church bell tolls six times as I watch them drive away. The Audi’s taillights glow red in the darkness like warning signals.
Only now, when there’s no one to see, do I finally let the tears come. They burn hot tracks down my cold cheeks, blurring the lights of the funeral home into smears of yellow against the gathering dark. My shoulders shake with the force of sobs I’ve been holding back all day.
I press my face against the box containing the last physical pieces of my mom, inhaling deeply, searching for some trace of her scent—vanilla, flour, the faint rose perfume she dabbed behind her ears even on baking days.
Mom is gone, and it’s all my fault.
The weight of her absence crashes over me, a wave that threatens to pull me under. For a moment, I let it. Just for this moment, in this empty parking lot, I allow myself to be swept away by grief that isn’t pretty or controlled or appropriate.
Then, like I’ve done every other time life has knocked me down, I straighten up. Wipe my tears. Take a deep, shaky breath of the cold Cleveland air. The box of Mom’s things tucked under one arm, I walk to my car alone, the sound of my heels on the asphalt echoing in the empty lot.
Tomorrow there will be bread to bake, customers to serve, a sister to appease, and a business to keep afloat. Tonight, I just need to make it home. One step at a time. It’s how Mom taught me to live. It’s how I’ll learn to live without her.
Cleveland looks like a ghost town as I drive home. The sidewalks are empty except for the occasional bundled figure hurrying toward warmth. The box of Mom’s things sits on the passenger seat, and I keep reaching over to touch it at red lights, as if confirming she hasn’t disappeared completely.
I drive on autopilot; the familiar route to Little Italy is etched into my muscle memory after twenty-three years of calling it home.
The streets narrow the closer I get. Old brick buildings press close to the sidewalk, restaurants with their warm golden windows spilling light onto the snow-dusted pavement.