We buried my mother on a gray, overcast Tuesday. The kind of gray that makes even bright flowers look as if they’ve given up. The chapel smelled faintly of lemon polish and wilting lilies, and the air felt heavy, like someone had pressed it down with invisible hands.
I wore a navy dress. Not black, because nothing black still fit me, but navy would have to do. It hugged my ribs too tightly, reminding me not just of the weight I’d gained but of all the words I never said, all the moments I never had with her.
Hank, my brother, stood stiff beside me, shoulders squared as if he were posing for a photo. He kept glancing at his watch, subtle at first, then more insistently. I gritted my teeth. It was like the funeral was a minor inconvenience to him—a box to tick off before returning to spreadsheets and business calls.
And then there was Becca.
She looked immaculate. Pearl earrings glimmering, cream coat spotless even after walking across the damp grass. Her posture was perfect. She didn’t cry, didn’t speak. She just stood, holding a single white rose, like she’d been cast in a brochure about dignified mourning.
I hated her for it. Or maybe I envied her.
After the service, people shuffled out with hushed voices and casseroles in hand. I found Hank at the doorway, 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, 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 calmly.
“I’ll stay too,” I said quickly. “To help with the house.”
Becca looked at me, unreadable, and then offered a polite smile.
“That would be… helpful, Natalie,” she said, her voice soft but distant, as if she didn’t quite trust me with the fragile things left behind.
And maybe she was right.
The first two days were quiet. We hardly spoke. Becca moved through the house like she was unpacking someone else’s life. She labeled boxes, sorted insurance papers with a calculator and highlighter, wiped the counters multiple times, even ate standing at the kitchen counter, her eyes always focused on the tree in the backyard.
No tears. No long sighs. Only methodical, careful movement.
I followed her sometimes, telling myself I was helping—but really, I was guarding my mother’s memory. Making sure she didn’t throw out anything sentimental: my mother’s chipped coffee mug, the sixth-grade ceramic frog I’d made, or my favorite handwritten recipes.
Becca never touched anything without care. She handled each photo frame like it was priceless. She folded cardigans gently, almost swaddling them.
It annoyed me—how careful she was, as if she had the right to grieve the woman who had been mine.
“She hated clutter,” Becca said one Thursday morning, stacking my mother’s crossword books neatly. “And she loved scones. Your Aunt Cathy dropped some off early this morning. They’re in the kitchen, Nat.”
“She did,” I said, arms crossed. “But she never threw anything away. I bet all those crosswords are finished.”
“They are,” Becca said, giving me a faint smile. “She told me they made her feel accomplished. That’s probably why she kept them.”
“She told you that?” I asked, surprised.
“Natalie, your mother told me a lot,” Becca said simply.
It stung more than I wanted to admit.
“Like what?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Like how quiet the house felt after you moved out,” Becca said, eyes on the pile. “She’d open your bedroom door just to see the mess of boxes and books. She hated clutter, yes—but she loved seeing yours. Maybe she hoped you’d come back for them someday.”
I didn’t answer. I had no words.
“She never told you that?” Becca asked softly.
“No,” I murmured. “She didn’t.”
Her voice made me feel like a stranger in my own childhood home. There was a version of my mother I never knew—a version only Becca had seen.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The hallway light cast shadows across the floor. I padded barefoot to the kitchen, chilled tile under my feet. The fridge hummed, and on the second shelf sat a peach cobbler someone had dropped off. I peeled back the foil and spooned a cold bite, tasting cinnamon, dust, and a strange, distant comfort.
I checked my phone. No new texts. Hank’s last message: “Landed safely.” And then I scrolled to Josh, my ex. Six weeks since his last message: “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 stopped at my old room, then walked past to my mother’s. Her bed was neat, but I could picture her clutter—reading glasses, lotion, a bent mystery novel.
Beneath the bed, a ribbon-tied shoebox caught my eye.
Inside were letters. All addressed to Becca. Yellowed and crisp, spanning four years.
“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.”
“Thank you for driving me to the oncologist. I didn’t want Natalie to see me like that. She’s so sensitive. And Hank… he didn’t reply.”
“You’ve given me more kindness than I deserve. I know I was hard on you at first. I’m proud to call you my child.”
No letters to me. No letters to Hank. Only Becca.
The next morning, I found her on the porch with coffee, sitting in one of my mother’s wicker chairs, feet tucked beneath her, hair falling loose from a braid.
“You visited her,” I said softly. “You… helped her.”
“Of course I did,” she said simply.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I asked.
“She didn’t want you to know,” Becca said, eyes distant. “She didn’t want you to feel guilty.”
“But I should feel guilty. I left… I didn’t come back.”
“You shouldn’t, Nat. You were living your life. That’s what she wanted. And Hank…”
“Hank was Hank,” I said. We exhaled together.
“She didn’t want to be a burden. She let herself be mine. I didn’t mind,” Becca said. Her voice was soft, patient, kind—words I never expected from her.
“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,” I said, and we both laughed—a fragile, trembling laugh that folded in on itself.
“She loved you,” I whispered. “I only realize now…”
“Through her letters,” Becca murmured.
We sat in silence, letting the quiet settle like warm dust. The heaviness was softer now.
Later, Hank called.
“Hey, how’s it going, Nat?”
“As well as it can. It’s strange being here without Mom.”
“And I bet Becca’s being… Becca?”
“What does that mean?”
“Efficient. Robotic. Not exactly falling apart, is she?”
“You don’t understand, Hank. Becca took care of Mom. You didn’t. Neither did I.”
“I sent money. I tried to visit. I did what I could.”
“Mom needed you there, Hank. Not a bank account.”
“You sound just like her,” he snapped.
“Like who?”
“Like Becca! Just stop.”
Her name landed like a gift I didn’t know I needed.
Later, I found Becca in the kitchen, staring at a tin of jasmine-orange-peel tea—Mom’s favorite.
“She saved this one,” she said.
“She only made this for birthdays, and once on Thanksgiving,” I said.
“She made it for me once after a doctor’s appointment,” Becca said softly. “Her way of saying… she didn’t dislike me as much as I thought.”
“Then let’s make some,” I said, grabbing mugs. Together, we brewed the tea, poured it, and sat. Like maybe we belonged there.
Later, we cooked her soup—the one in the blue pot, cinnamon and brown butter just like Mom did. Becca chopped, I stirred. The house felt warmer.
The next morning, Becca folded clothes in the sunroom, trembling slightly.
“She wore this when she told me the chemo wasn’t working,” she said, nodding at a green cardigan.
“She told me to video call. Did you tell her to?”
She nodded.
“She said that sweater made her feel like herself,” she said.
We didn’t cry. We didn’t need to. But something softened in us both.
At the kitchen table, I traced my mug’s rim. “She kept all your letters,” I said.
“She asked me not to throw them out. On her last day, she told me to leave the box 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.
“She let me see her pain. That’s different. She needed a shoulder,” Becca said.
“I thought I was her daughter,” I whispered.
“You were. And because of that, she fought hardest to keep you whole,” Becca said, voice breaking.
We didn’t speak much after, but something had shifted. Not forgiveness, not closure—but recognition. Finally, we saw each other. And for now, that was enough.
