Page 14 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
Because this wasn’t a fresh start.
It was the end of an era.
It was a funeral.
And now, I was attending a wake in a home that had barely once welcomed Margaret when she was alive.
I glanced down at my phone, noting that my TikTok notifications were pouring in, thanks to my latest card-pull video from this morning. People loved those, and they were fun to make. I only wished Margaret were around to see how successful we were becoming online.
"You don’t have to keep the shop, you know."
My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts, and my head snapped toward her.
"What?"
"You don’t have to bow to the pressure," Mom said with a shrug as we approached the front door. "I know what my mother was like. She was a stifling figure. Unfortunately, you spent too many of your more impressionable years under her care. My fault. I accept that. But she’s gone now. You don’t have to keep that place going."
She didn’t even look at me as she spoke, just stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, leaving me to follow after her with a frown.
"It’s not as if it’s a burden," I said weakly. "I was always going to run the shop. We talked about it all the time."
"Come on, Dove." Mom scoffed, letting out an irritable sigh as she finally glanced at me while removing her coat. "You? Running a business? In this economy?"
"The shop isn’t struggling, if that’s what you’re implying," I snapped curtly. "In fact, business is up since we created the TikTok account. We get paid creator money now."
Mom rolled her eyes at me, condescending. "Dove, you can barely get through a day without causing some kind of malfunction in your life. You’re more indecisive than she ever was. Do you honestly think you can handle running her shop? Don’t ask me why it’s busy."
The last part was muttered under her breath, and frustration flared hot in my chest as I grit my teeth.
Sure, maybe I wasn’t some picture-perfect businesswoman. And yes, I found the admin work incredibly boring. I wasn’t the most organized person in the world or methodical or whatever the hell a person was supposed to be when running a shop.
But I wasn’t stupid.
I had spent countless hours watching Margaret work, learning from her, soaking in everything she had to offer.
This was my path and it was one I was happy with.
And I wasn’t doing it alone. I still had Ida. We would do it together.
"It’s not too late," Mom murmured, looking at me with slightly wide eyes. "You can still go to college. You could get a degree. Find a stable job in apropercareer field."
"Oh, Jesus," I groaned, rubbing my head. "Notthisconversation again."
"Your future is important, Dove!" Mom hissed, exhaling sharply. "If I had realized you were this deep intoMargaret’s Mystique, I would have cut you off from her a long time ago."
"Well, I’m sorry your free childcare—while you chased a career instead of being my mother—hasn’t worked out for you," I snapped, pettiness rising in me as my ears burned. "Not all of us want to be strapped into uncomfortable shoes and tight pantsuits for the rest of our lives. I don’t want that. I never have."
The tip of her nose turned white, as it always did when she was pissed but keeping a lid on it, not wanting to make a scene. No, my mother never showed emotion, which was probably why she always had a constipated look on her face.
I shook my head and exhaled through my nose.
I hated the savagery that seemed to be running through me today. Regardless of how awful my mother could be—or even Uncle Bill—I hated carrying anger within me. The energy you put out is the energy you got back; I believed that fully. Carrying this negativity was going to come back and bite me.
"I’m not doing this today," I told her tiredly.
Without another word, I pulled away from her, weaving through the wandering caterers now emerging with trays of food. More mourners were beginning to arrive, their hushed voices filling the house. I moved toward the one room I knew would be empty—obscured, tucked away—one I remembered from awkward childhood visits.
Uncle Bill had a stuffy antiques room, filled with elegant furniture, expensive works of art, and bookshelves lined with unread titles. Clearly there for decoration.
