Page 51 of Porcelain Lies

She leans against me as we climb the stairs, her body feeling smaller than I remember. In her bedroom, the air still carries traces of Dad’s cologne. Mom’s fingers brush his pillow as she lies down, and I pretend not to notice the tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Are you alright,Mama?” I whisper.

She nods her head silently. Her eyes are squeezed shut and I can practically feel the pain radiating from her. It breaks my heart.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers through her hair like she used to do for me after nightmares. Her breathing eventually steadies into sleep, but her face remains troubled even in rest.

Back in the hallway, I close her door quietly and slide down the wall to sit on the floor. My hands shake as I process what she’s told me. Dad’s death wasn’t an accident. Those men in the black car — they meant to kill him. But why? What secrets could my father, who cried at my graduation and spent weekends tending his roses, have possibly kept that were worth killing for?

The image of his crushed Mercedes floods my mind. I’d assumed he’d lost control somehow, or maybe even had a heart attack. But murder? The word feels wrong, like something from a crime show, not my real life.

Yet Mom’s story rings with terrible truth. The vacant look in her eyes these past weeks wasn’t just grief — it was the horror of witnessing her husband’s murder and having no one believe her. No one. Even I had doubted her, dismissed her words as trauma-induced delusions.

I push myself up from the hallway floor, my legs stiff from sitting. The kitchen needs cleaning before bed — Mom’s forgotten tea, my cold coffee, the scattered remains of our interrupted evening.

My hands move on autopilot, rinsing cups, wiping counters. The routine tasks help ground me after Mom’s devastating revelation. Each item I return to its proper place feels like a tiny restoration of order in our chaotic world.

The house creaks and settles around me as I finish up, the familiar sounds somehow hollow without Dad’s eveningroutine — his newspaper rustling, the TV news murmuring in the background. I switch off the kitchen light, plunging the downstairs into darkness.

Exhaustion weighs on me as I climb the stairs. My bedroom door stands open at the end of the hall, but I pause outside Mom’s room. Just one quick check to make sure she’s sleeping peacefully.

I ease her door open, the soft glow of her nightlight spilling into the hallway. The familiar floral scent of her moisturizer mingles with something else, something... wrong.

My eyes find her bed. Mom lies there, still and peaceful at first glance, but something’s off about the way she’s positioned. Her hand has fallen limply over the edge of the bed, an empty glass on the nightstand beside her. A pinkish froth stains the corner of her mouth.

My scream shatters the night’s silence.

Mom!

I rush to her bedside, my fingers pressing against her neck, searching desperately for a pulse while my other hand fumbles for my phone. Her skin is cool to the touch, and there’s a faint, bitter almond smell in the air that makes my stomach turn. A small, empty vial has rolled under the edge of the bed.

“Please, please, please...” The word becomes a mantra as I dial 911, my voice cracking as I relay our address to the operator. Mom’s skin is still warm, but her chest doesn’t move. No breath stirs the air.

My eyes lock onto a folded paper on her nightstand, my name written in Mom’s elegant script. The operator’s voice fadesto background noise as I reach for the note with trembling hands. The paper feels delicate, fragile — like Mom’s pulse had been just hours ago when we sat in the kitchen. When she’d finally told me the truth about Dad.

“I’m so sorry, my darling,”the note begins. My tears blur the words.“I can’t go on. Not like this. Please believe me when I say I’m doing this for all of us. Know that I love you and your brother so much and I want you to go on with your life. But this is where mine ends. All I ask is that you understand. Love you forever, Mama.”

The distant wail of sirens grows louder as I clutch the paper, my mother’s final words burning themselves into my memory. The same mother who’d been so alive just hours ago, who’d finally seemed ready to fight for the truth about Dad’s death.

But she’d never meant to fight at all. She’d already decided. While I’d been downstairs cleaning up our tea cups, thinking everything would be clearer in the morning, she’d been up here, writing this note.

Planning her exit.

The paramedics’ heavy footsteps thunder up the stairs, but I already know the harsh truth. They’re too late. Mom’s gone, taking her secrets with her, leaving me alone with nothing but questions and a piece of paper that only offers more questions than answers.

* * *

The funeral home director’s voice fades in and out as he shows me casket options. Mahogany or oak? Open or closed? It’s all I can do to stay focused.

First Dad, and now Mom. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

Suddenly, my ridiculous little drama with Gianni barely a month ago seems utterly insignificant. My phone stays silent no matter how many messages I leave to my brother. “Please, Nick. I can’t do this alone.” Each voicemail feels more desperate than the last.

I choose everything Mom would have wanted — white roses, her favorite hymns, the dress she wore to my college graduation. The decisions pile up like stones on my chest. Guest list. Memorial cards. Details for the wake. My signature appears on papers I barely read.

“And who will be giving the eulogy?” The director’s pen hovers over his notepad.

“I…” The word catches. There’s no one else. Dad’s funeral was barely three weeks ago, and now here I am again, planning another service.

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