We buried my mother on a Tuesday.
The sky was a flat, gray sheet, the kind of overcast that makes even flowers look like they’ve given up trying. The chapel smelled faintly of lemon polish and dying lilies. The service was short, almost clinical, and I found myself wishing it could be longer—not for the ceremony, but for a chance to feel something real.
I wore a navy dress because nothing black fit anymore. It hugged my ribs in a way that made me feel punished—not just for the weight I’d gained, but for the words I never said and the moments I never shared with her.
My brother Hank stood beside me, stiff as a mannequin, his posture perfect. He checked his watch too often, enough to make my jaw ache from clenching. The day felt like an inconvenience to him, like grieving was just something to get through before he returned to his neat, spreadsheet life.
And then there was Becca.
She looked flawless in a cream coat, pearl earrings glinting faintly in the dim light. Her hair was perfectly in place, her posture regal, her hands folded over a single white rose. She didn’t cry, didn’t speak, didn’t fidget. She was a portrait of controlled sorrow, and I hated her for it—or maybe it was envy.
After the service, the crowd thinned. People murmured soft condolences and carried casseroles. I spotted Hank near the doorway, phone in hand, already scanning through emails.
“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 staying, or coming with me? I need sleep in my own bed before work.”
“I’ll stay,” she said immediately.
“I’ll stay too,” I blurted. “To help with the house.”
She turned to me, expression unreadable. Then a small, polite smile curved her lips.
“That would be… helpful, Natalie,” she said, her voice soft but distant, as if she didn’t fully trust me with what was fragile.
Maybe she was right.
For the first two days, words were scarce. Becca moved through my mother’s home like a surgeon, careful and precise. She labeled boxes, color-coded files, sorted insurance papers with a calculator and a highlighter. She wiped counters repeatedly, ate standing up at the kitchen bar, and stared out the window at the tree in the backyard.
There was no crying, no sighing, no dramatic pauses—just quiet, focused order.
I followed her, not always to help. Mostly to make sure she wasn’t tossing the little things that mattered—my mother’s handwritten recipes, her chipped coffee mug, the ceramic frog I made in sixth grade.
But Becca treated each item like treasure. She paused before touching photos, ran her fingers over the glass gently, folded cardigans as if swaddling a baby. It annoyed me. It felt like she had a right to grieve a woman who had been mine.
“She hated clutter,” Becca said on Thursday morning, stacking crossword books. “And she loved scones. Your aunt Cathy dropped some off early. They’re in the kitchen, Nat.”
“She did,” I said, arms crossed. “But she never threw anything away. I bet these are all finished.”
“They are,” Becca replied, a faint smile on her lips. “She said they made her feel accomplished. That’s why she kept them.”
“She told you that?” I asked, a stab of hurt shooting through me.
“Natalie, your mother told me a lot of things,” Becca said simply.
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to sound defensive.
“She hated how quiet the house felt after you moved out,” Becca said, picking up another book. “She’d open your room door just to see the mess of boxes and books you left behind. She hated clutter, yes—but she loved seeing yours. She probably hoped you’d come back for those things.”
I didn’t respond. Words failed me.
“She never told you?” Becca asked softly.
“No,” I admitted, staring at my socks. “She didn’t.”
There was something unsettling about how she described my mother—a version I’d never known, one I had no claim to, yet had existed all along.
That night, sleep eluded me. I wandered the house in bare feet, letting the cold tile press into me. In the kitchen, the fridge hummed. On the second shelf sat a foil-covered peach cobbler, someone’s comforting gesture. I peeled back the foil and tasted it—cinnamon, sugar, dust. A memory not mine, yet strangely soothing.
I unlocked my phone. No messages from Hank. Nothing from anyone. I scrolled to Josh, my ex. The 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.”
I wandered upstairs, passed my old room, and paused at my mother’s. Her bed was neat, untouched. But beneath it, a sky-blue ribbon tied a shoebox. I pulled it out, lifted the lid, and found letters—hundreds of them, 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, and Hank… he didn’t reply.
And another:
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, feet tucked beneath her. She didn’t turn as I approached.
“You visited her,” I said softly. “You… helped her.”
“Of course I did,” she said simply. “Twice a week. Sometimes more.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“She didn’t want you to know. Afraid you’d feel guilty.”
“But I should feel guilty. I left… I didn’t come back properly.”
“You shouldn’t, Nat. You were living your life. That’s what she wanted. And Hank… well…”
“Hank was Hank,” I said, and we exhaled together.
“She didn’t want to be your burden,” Becca said. “But she let herself be mine. I didn’t mind it at all.”
Her voice was soft, without bitterness. I’d never heard that side of 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.”
We laughed—short, fragile, and honest.
“She loved you,” I whispered. “I knew she enjoyed your company, but now I understand how much…”
Becca didn’t reply, staring at the wilting hydrangeas outside.
“She tried to tell me,” she murmured. “In the only way she could—through her writing.”
For the first time in days, the silence between us didn’t feel heavy. Something was shifting. Not healed, but softening.
Hank called later.
“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?”
“Efficient. Robotic. Not exactly falling apart, is she?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Hank. Becca took care of Mom. You didn’t. Neither did I.”
“I sent money. I tried visiting. It’s not easy commuting all the time.”
“Mom needed your presence, not a bank account.”
“I’m not the only one,” he snapped.
“No, but you’re not the one here, Hank. Not really.”
He laughed awkwardly, the sound almost pained. “God, you sound like her.”
“Like who?”
“Like Becca! Stop it.”
Her name landed in my chest like a gift. I smiled softly.
Later, in the kitchen, Becca stood with a tin of tea.
“She saved this one,” she said. Jasmine and orange peel. My mother’s favorite. Reserved for someone special.
“She made it for me once,” Becca added. “After a doctor’s appointment. I think it was her way of saying she didn’t dislike me as much as I thought.”
“Then let’s make some now,” I said, grabbing two mugs.
We brewed the tea, poured it, and sat down. The house felt warmer, somehow less empty.
We cooked together that night, soup in the blue pot, using Mom’s recipe. Silence, but comforting. Small, deliberate movements filled the space where words had failed.
The next morning, Becca folded my mother’s laundry with reverence, hands trembling as she smoothed a green cardigan.
“She wore this when she told me the chemo wasn’t working,” she said.
“I remember. She said it washed her out, but wore it anyway. Did you make her video call me?”
Becca nodded.
“She said that sweater made her feel like herself,” she said.
We didn’t cry. We just softened, together, like cloth left out in the sun.
At the table, tea warming our hands, I whispered, “She kept all your letters.”
“She asked me not to throw them out. On that final day, she told me to leave the box under her bed. Just in case you needed to understand what we had.”
“She was softer with you,” I said.
“Not softer, Natalie. She let me see her pain. That’s not the same. She needed a shoulder. That’s all.”
“I thought I was her daughter,” I said.
“You were,” Becca said, voice breaking. “And because of that, you were the one she fought hardest to keep whole.”
We didn’t speak much after, but something shifted. Not forgiveness, maybe. But understanding. Finally, we were both seen.
And that was everything.