Nana Rose’s funeral felt less like a goodbye to a beloved grandmother and more like another stage for my mother’s performance.
A cold drizzle fell over the cemetery, turning the ground soft and muddy. I stood near the back beneath a plain black umbrella, wearing an old wool coat I had bought years earlier. From there, I watched my mother, Linda, seated in the front row in a black fur coat that probably cost more than my first car. She dabbed at eyes that had no tears in them, glancing sideways to make sure the important people in town noticed her grief.
My father, Robert, stood beside her looking irritated. Every few minutes, he checked his watch, probably counting down the time until the reception and the open bar. To them, Nana Rose had been a burden while alive and an opportunity now that she was gone. They had not visited her at the nursing home in three years, always blaming “business obligations” or “emotional strain.”
But I missed her.
The pain sat heavy in my chest. I missed our Saturday chess games in her sunroom. I missed her sharp humor, her stories from wartime, and the way she squeezed my hand whenever my parents made cruel little remarks about my choices.
“She’s in a better place,” my mother announced loudly as the casket was lowered, making sure everyone could hear.
