Page 82 of From Rivals to I Do

I’m still standing there on the balcony, the morning sun casting warm hues across the cityscape. But despite the gentle embrace of sunlight, my thoughts are drawn back to the night of Jessica’s death. I sat there in the hospital waiting room, which had been a sterile space, filled with uncomfortable plastic chairs and the hushed voices of other visitors.

My sister’s lifeless body had been taken to the morgue just hours before, and I sat there, numb, trying to process the enormity of the loss. It was then that Mother arrived at the hospital. Her entrance was like a whirlwind, as if she were trying to fill the empty space left by my sister’s absence.

She was different that night, her facade of strength cracking under the weight of her grief. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at me, her own flesh and blood, as if seeing me for the first time in years. The vulnerability in her gaze was something I had never witnessed before.

But that vulnerability was short-lived. In a matter of minutes, she had transformed herself into a cold, distant figure. She wiped away her tears and looked at me as if my grief were an inconvenience. Her words cut deep, slicing through the delicate threads of my emotions.

“Why are you crying, Amber? It’s just death,” she said, her voice devoid of compassion. “We all have our lives to live. Your sister had lived hers.”

I had stared at her in disbelief, unable to comprehend how she could be so detached from the pain we were both feeling. She continued to speak, her words an unrelenting barrage of callousness. She insisted that death was a natural part of life, a simple occurrence in the grand scheme of things. My mother’s response to our tragedy had left me feeling abandoned and alone. I had hoped for comfort, for a moment of shared grief with my mother. Instead, I was met with indifference and a stark reminder that I was, in many ways, on my own.

Later that night, Rose, my friend, had come to comfort me. She held me in a tight hug while I broke my flood gates over her shoulders for the umpteenth time. My hands were stained in Jessica’s blood, and Rose had walked me to the bathroom to have a cleanup.

In the weeks that followed, Lisa tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She stayed out late into the night, her smoking habit increasing with each passing day. Her once vibrant personality had become an unpredictable blend of supermom and villain, shifting from moments of warmth to sudden outbursts of anger.

I think about the stories of her past life like the nine lives of a cat, the turbulent childhood that had shaped her into the woman she had become. She had been raised by her mother and a stepfather who had subjected her to years of physical and emotional abuse. Her stepfather had forced her into labor at a young age, denying her the chance to enjoy a proper childhood.

The pain from her childhood had driven her to seek solace in her own independence. At a young age, she had left her family behind, determined to fend for herself and escape the torment of what she thought life was. But it was only the beginning.

As I recall the tumultuous history of my mother’s life, I can’t help but wonder if the scars of her past are the reason behind her distant demeanor. Her inability to fully connect with what should matter more, her affinity to murk and grime.

Whatever it could have been, I’m not going to be like her. That I’m sure of.

As the day wears on, I get immersed in the tasks at hand. Sorting through my belongings, along with Alex’s, is a necessary yet oddly comforting activity. It’s a way of preparing for the journey ahead, but it also brings back memories of a time when our family was whole.

In the late afternoon, I hear the soft hum of the television from the living room. It’s Lisa, engrossed in one of her favorite shows. I approach her, hesitant yet determined. Alex walks behind me, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Lisa glances at me with a distant look, her eyes barely leaving the screen.

“Mom,” I begin, “Alex and I need to go out for a while. We’ll be getting some supplies.”

Her response is cold, almost dismissive. “That’s good for you both,” she mutters without taking her eyes off the TV.

With a heavy sigh, I take Alex’s hand, leading him toward the hallway. He turns to my mother and smiles, his innocent voice breaking through the silence. “Bye, Nana.”

Lisa responds with a curt, “Bye, Alex,” still not shifting her gaze.

We step into the hallway and greet our neighbor, an elderly woman struggling to open her apartment door. “Hi, Ma’am,” I say with a warm smile.

“Hello, dear,” she replies, her voice slightly shaky. She’s a kind woman who often looks out for us in this bustling apartment complex. She looks at Alex and smiles at him. He shoots the same smile back at her.

As we make our way downstairs and finally exit the building, we’re met by the sights and sounds of the evening. It’s the quintessential urban experience: the sounds of traffic, the constant hustle and bustle of people, and the imposing presence of the eight-story building we call home.

Alex tugs at my hand gently, looking up at me with his curious eyes. “Where are we going, Aunty Amber?”

I bend down to his level, ruffling his hair affectionately. “We’re going to get some supplies for our upcoming trip, but first, we’re going somewhere special.”

His face lights up with excitement, always eager for an adventure. “Where is it, Aunty Amber?” he asks, getting only a wide smile from me.

We continue down the sidewalk, eventually reaching our destination—the cemetery. At the entrance, a woman with a weathered face stands there, offering bouquets of flowers. Her attire is simple, a faded dress that has seen better days. A colorful scarf is wrapped around her head, and her eyes hold a mixture of warmth and weariness.

We approach her, and she greets us with a gentle smile. “Hello, dear. Would you like some flowers for your visit?”

I glance at Alex, and he nods, his small hand clutching mine. “Yes, please,” I reply, purchasing two bouquets—one for each of us.

The cemetery itself is a peaceful place, with well-maintained pathways and carefully tended graves. A sense of serenity envelops the area, as if time stands still in this corner of the bustling city. A few other visitors are scattered throughout, paying their respects to their loved ones.

I kneel down to Alex’s eye level. “Do you know where we are, buddy?”

He nods solemnly, his gaze scanning the surroundings. “We’re at Mommy’s special place, right?”

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