A woman holding her mother’s hand | Source: Pexels
The room was quiet except for the rain tapping against the window and the final, shallow breaths that eventually stopped altogether. I sat there for a long time afterward, still holding her hand as it grew cold.
When I finally called Doreen, she cried on the phone. Real tears, it seemed. For a moment, I thought maybe she actually cared after all.
Naturally, I expected her to step up for the funeral arrangements. But I guess I should have known better.
People standing near a coffin | Source: Pexels
“Emily, I’m sorry, but I just can’t help financially right now,” she said when I called to discuss the service. “I wish I could. But you’re the one who’s always been better at this kind of thing.”
And that was it. No offer to share costs or suggestions to help with planning. Nothing.
“Fine,” was all I managed to say before hanging up.
Mark found me at the kitchen table later that night, surrounded by brochures from funeral homes.
“She’s not helping at all, is she?” he asked.
A man talking | Source: Pexels
I shook my head. “When has she ever?”
So, I did what I always do. I handled it.
I paid for everything, including the casket with the satin lining Mom would have liked, the service at her favorite church, the arrangement of white lilies and pink roses, and the memorial lunch for everyone who came to say goodbye.
I maxed out our credit card and dipped into our savings. It was the money we’d been setting aside for Emma’s college fund.
A woman counting money | Source: Pexels
At night, after the kids were in bed, I stayed up sorting through old photographs. I found pictures of Mom as a young woman, laughing on a beach. Mom holding Doreen as a baby. Mom at my wedding, radiant in her blue dress.
I assembled them into a slideshow, tears blurring my vision as I worked alone at the kitchen table.
Two days before the funeral, Doreen finally called.
A phone on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
“I’ve been thinking about what I could say,” she said. “Maybe I should speak at the service? People will expect it since I’m the oldest.”
I nearly laughed. Of course. Now she wanted the spotlight.
“Sure,” I said flatly. “Whatever you want.”
The day of the memorial arrived. I stood at the church entrance with Mark and the kids, greeting people as they arrived.
Candles near a coffin | Source: Pexels
And then Doreen swept in, dressed in an expensive black dress I’d never seen before.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her makeup was subtle but perfect. She hugged me with one arm, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief held in the other.
“It’s just so hard,” she whispered, loud enough for others to hear.
I nodded stiffly. Where was this grief when Mom needed someone to hold back her hair while she vomited from chemotherapy? Where was this devotion when Mom asked for her, week after week?
Throughout the service, I watched Doreen from the corner of my eye. She played her part perfectly. Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was the dedicated daughter, overcome with grief.
I knew better.
During the reception at the church hall, people came to offer their condolences and told stories about Mom. At that point, Doreen accepted sympathy as if she’d been by Mom’s side all along.
As the memorial reception wound down, I finally started to breathe a little easier.
It’s almost over, I told myself.
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