We buried my mother on a gray Tuesday.
The sky hung low, heavy with clouds, dull and colorless. Even the flowers seemed to have given up, their petals drooping as if weighed down by grief. The chapel smelled faintly of lemon polish and dying lilies, a scent that would forever be tied to loss in my mind.
I wore a navy dress because I had nothing black that still fit. It hugged my ribs too tightly, pressing down on my chest like a silent accusation—for the weight I’d gained, for the words I never said, the things I never did.
Hank, my brother, stood beside me like a statue, rigid and unyielding. His shoulders squared, jaw set. He checked his watch with barely disguised impatience, making my jaw clench. This whole day, it seemed, was just another chore for him, a box to tick off before returning to his spreadsheets and his life.
And then there was Becca.
Pearl earrings, cream coat, hair perfect, posture straight. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She just stood, holding a single white rose like it was a prop for a magazine photo on dignified mourning.
I hated her for it. Or maybe I envied her.
After the service, people shuffled out, murmuring condolences and carrying casseroles wrapped in foil. I found Hank by the doorway, already scrolling through his phone.
“I have to head back tomorrow, Nat,” he said without looking up. “Quarterly meetings. You know how it is.”
I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway.
“Becca?” he called over his shoulder. “You coming, or staying? I need sleep in my own bed before work.”
“I’ll stay,” she said immediately.
“I’ll stay too,” I said, faster than I realized. “To help with the house.”
Becca turned to me, her face unreadable for a long moment. Then she smiled—a polite, practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“That would be… helpful, Natalie,” she said.
There was a distance in her voice, a careful measurement, as though I might break something fragile if I got too close. And maybe I would.
The first two days were quiet. Almost too quiet. Becca moved through my mother’s house like she was conducting an archaeological dig—careful, meticulous, precise. Sticky notes, color-coded tabs, piles of papers, receipts, insurance forms.
She wiped counters twice, maybe three times, before leaving a surface bare. She ate standing at the kitchen counter, eyes fixed on the backyard tree. Not a word. Not a sigh. Just order.
I followed her—not to help, really, but to make sure she didn’t throw away something precious: a coffee mug with a chip, a ceramic frog I made in sixth grade, my mother’s handwritten recipes. But Becca never touched anything sentimental. She handled each photo frame like a sacred relic, folded cardigans like she was cradling a baby.
It annoyed me. It shouldn’t have. But it did.
“She hated clutter,” Becca said Thursday morning, stacking crossword books into a neat pile. “Your aunt Cathy dropped off scones early. They’re in the kitchen, Nat.”
“She did,” I replied, arms crossed. “But she also never threw anything away. Bet all these crosswords are finished.”
“They are,” Becca said softly. “She said finishing them made her feel accomplished. Maybe that’s why she kept them.”
“She told you that?” I asked, surprised.
“Natalie, your mother told me a lot of things,” Becca said simply.
It stung.
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to sound defensive.
“She hated how quiet the house was after you moved out. She’d open your room door just to see the messy stacks of boxes and books you left. She hated clutter, yes—but she loved seeing yours. Maybe she thought you’d come back for them.”
I said nothing. Words failed me.
“She never told you?” Becca asked gently.
“No,” I admitted, staring at my socks. “She didn’t.”
Her presence made me feel like a visitor in my own memories. My mother had shared herself deeply with Becca, in ways she never had with me. An entire part of my mother had lived in secret, and Becca had been its witness.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I padded to the kitchen, bare feet chilling on the tile. The fridge hummed as usual. On the second shelf, someone had left a peach cobbler. I peeled back the foil and took a cold spoonful—it tasted like cinnamon, dust, and someone else’s comfort.
I checked my phone. No new messages. Not from Hank. Not from anyone. I scrolled to Josh, my ex, and saw the last text from six weeks ago:
Hope your mom gets better. Let me know if you want to talk, Nat.
I whispered to the empty kitchen, “I don’t want to talk. Not anymore.”
Upstairs, I lingered outside my old room, then moved to my mother’s. Her bed was made perfectly, nothing out of place. But then I noticed a sky-blue ribbon tied around a shoebox under the bed.
I opened it. Letters. All addressed to Becca.
“Dear Becca, I know I act like I’m fine, but I’m not. Thank you for sitting with me last Thursday. Your banana bread is awful, love, but it reminded me I’m not alone.”
Another:
“Thank you for driving me to the oncologist. I didn’t want Natalie to see me like that. She’s so sensitive, Becca. And Hank… he didn’t reply.”
Another still:
“You’ve given me more kindness than I deserve. I know I gave you a hard time in the beginning, honey. I’m so proud to call you my child.”
No letters to me. None to Hank. Only Becca.
The next morning, I found her on the porch, coffee in hand, sitting in one of my mother’s wicker chairs. Hair loose, braid unraveling, steam curling from the mug. She didn’t look at me.
“You visited her,” I said softly. “You… helped her.”
“Of course I did,” she replied plainly. “Twice a week. Sometimes more.”
I sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“She didn’t want you to know,” Becca said, eyes on the yard. “She was afraid you’d feel guilty.”
“I should feel guilty, Becca. I left… I didn’t come back properly.”
“You shouldn’t, Nat. You were living your life. That’s what she wanted. Hank… well.”
“Hank was Hank,” I finished. We exhaled together.
“She didn’t want to be your burden. But she let herself be mine. I didn’t mind at all.”
There was no bitterness, only a softness I hadn’t known existed in Becca.
“I always thought you were cold,” I admitted.
“I always thought you hated me,” she said.
“You know what? I think I did. A little.”
We laughed, a fragile, half-broken sound that somehow felt like relief.
“She loved you,” I said quietly. “I knew she enjoyed your company, but now I realize how much.”
Becca didn’t answer, just watched the hydrangeas wilt in the yard, petals curling as if they too were grieving.
“She tried to tell me,” she murmured. “In the only way she could… through her writing.”
We sat in silence, letting the quiet speak. It was the first time in days the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt like a slow shift, not healing, but softening.
Later, Hank called.
“Hey, how’s it going, Nat?”
“As well as it can. Strange being here without Mom.”
“And Becca’s busy being… Becca, huh?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know,” he laughed. “Efficient. Robotic. Not exactly falling apart.”
“You have no idea,” I said. “Becca took care of Mom. You didn’t. Neither did I.”
“I sent money, I visited when I could. It’s not easy commuting all the time.”
“Mom needed your presence, Hank. Not a bank account.”
“You’re making this a thing,” he snapped.
“I know I should have come back more,” I said softly. “I’ll carry that guilt forever.”
“God, you sound like her,” he muttered.
“Like who?”
“Becca! Just stop.”
Her name landed like a gift I hadn’t realized I needed.
Later, Becca and I brewed jasmine-orange peel tea, the special kind Mom reserved for important moments. We cooked together, folding, chopping, stirring, finding rhythm in familiar motions. For the first time, we felt like we belonged in the house together, like maybe we weren’t so far apart anymore.
The next morning, she sorted clothes in the sunroom, handling each cardigan with care, speaking softly.
“She was wearing this when she told me chemo wasn’t working,” Becca said.
“I remember. She said it washed her out but wore it anyway. Did you… encourage her to video call me?”
She nodded.
“She said that sweater made her feel like herself,” Becca said.
We didn’t cry. But the heaviness softened, the tension in our chests easing a little.
Later, tea at the kitchen table, I spoke: “She kept all your letters.”
“She asked me not to throw them out. On that final day, she told me to leave the box exactly where it was.”
“Why?”
“Just in case you needed to understand what we had. She let me in too.”
“She was softer with you,” I said quietly.
“She let me see her pain, Natalie. That’s not the same thing. She was desperate for a shoulder.”
“I thought I was her daughter,” I whispered.
“You were,” Becca said, voice breaking. “And you were the one she fought hardest to keep whole.”
After that, we didn’t speak much. But something had changed. Not forgiveness—not yet—but recognition, understanding. We were finally seen. And for now, that was enough.