Page 80 of Love is a Game

The women stepping out of a sleek silver SUV turn out to be Beatrice Kennedy, and the other contributors to the stack of frozen meals still filling Mom’s freezer. As I thank them and the other arrivals, I start to recognize school friends. Well, classmates—I never knew half these people as actual friends. And yet—they’re here.

Blue Mountain High girls, now grown women, some with more generous figures, some with questionable taste in sequinned black lace and heavy statement jewelry. One with so much smoky eye and coiffed hair that I get seriousSopranovibes.

But no matter—they came. Some with wedding bands on their fingers. Some with babies and toddlers in tow. Some who barely spoke to me back then. Some who did.

I’m so stunned, so blindsided by their presence, I’m almost grateful it’s a funeral and I don’t have to find the words.

Because what could I even say?

Even the speech I’ve tried to draft over and over is patchy and threadbare. I thought maybe I could wing it—find some nugget of inspiration to cover up the fact that my knowledge of my mother is so horribly sparse.

Her quiet life was only broken up by her one passion project, Safe Haven. A place where shedidconnect with people. And with people who needed support that she was in a position to give. Because she knew all the challenges of an unexpected pregnancy…of a dysfunctional relationship that requires an escape plan.

As the service gets underway, I mentally say a private prayer of thanks that the church is filled. Not to capacity, sure. But amazingly, with enough people to be considered a crowd.

And then I see him…arriving late, a tip of his head as he takes an aisle seat next to a blonde woman in a big hat and chunky glasses. My father came after all. Unbelievable. Nothing in more than a decade, then twice in one day.

I turn back to the coffin. My mother. Center stage in her death, holding the room’s attention like she rarely did in life.

We play the video tribute centered on Safe Haven, cut with snippets of my mother and the contributions she made. Writing grant proposals, fundraising, running workshops for young mothers.

Then I get up to speak…and my throat constricts.

I look to Tuck, needing something. Reassurance. Inspiration. Grounding.

He winks.

Winks! At a funeral, he winks at me like that.

But it helps. Something lightens inside me.

Then I begin.

I open with the confession: “I didn’t really know my mother. Not beyond the facts. She did everything she was supposed to. She cooked, cleaned, worked, raised me. Made sure I studied. Made sure I had ambitions. That I could support myself.”

My gaze drifts upward, past the casket, to the rafters of the old church.

“She fulfilled her role. But it cost her. She gave up her own ambitions—college, travel—because every resource she had, she poured into me. And then she died. At fifty-five years old. Gone before we ever had the conversations I thought we’d get around to someday.

“The ones about what she learned in the hard times. About being young, scared, pregnant, with no stable job or home. What it cost her to come back to Blue Mountain Lake. To ask for acceptance from her mother, from God, from the people who whispered about the Homecoming Queen turned unmarried teen mom.”

I glance at her coffin and take a breath.

“I thought I lost my chance to really know her. To understand what mattered to her beyond gardening and travel shows.”

I smile at the group representing Safe Haven, many dabbing their eyes.

“But then I met a group of women who could answer those questions. Women my mother quietly helped. Young mothers in need, scared and overwhelmed, just like she once was. Women who have been generous enough to come here today, to honor her life.

“And through them, I’ve come to know the version of my mother I never got to see. The one who sat in cramped apartments, holding someone’s baby so they could rest. Who dropped off bags of groceries without waiting for athank you. Who shared advice, encouragement, and wisdom. Pieces of herself she never shared with me. They’ve filled in the blanks. Given me the gift of seeing her in full. Not just as my mother, but as an inspirational, dedicated, caring woman. And for that, I’m grateful.”

I step down. Take my seat. Tell myself it was fine for a speech mostly constructed on the fly.

I did my best, Mom.

Soon, ‘Amazing Grace’ is piped through the speakers, and the pallbearers step forward. The ones I went off script to Mom’s notes to arrange. Instead of the funeral home staff, John, Keith, Harvey, Brady, Steven, and Tuck step forward.

On the way out, as I trail the coffin, I meet my father’s eyes. We share a brief acknowledgement before I quickly move on.

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