We buried my mother on a Tuesday.
The sky was dull and gray, like someone had taken all the color out of the world. Even the flowers seemed to sag in surrender, their petals fading before they even had a chance to shine. The chapel smelled of lemon polish and the faint, almost ghostly scent of dying lilies. The service itself was short, cold, and impersonal. No one lingered. No one cried loudly. Everyone simply went through the motions.
I wore a navy dress because nothing black still fit me. It hugged my ribs like it wanted to punish me—not just for the weight I’d gained, but for all the things I’d left unsaid to my mother over the years.
Hank, my brother, stood rigid beside me, shoulders squared, eyes flicking to his watch again and again, like the day was an interruption in his perfectly planned life. I could feel my jaw tighten. It was as if the funeral itself were a minor inconvenience, something he just had to endure before returning to spreadsheets and deadlines.
And then there was Becca.
She looked impeccable, as always. Pearl earrings, cream coat still spotless even after walking across wet cemetery grass. Her posture was perfect, as if she had been sculpted for dignity. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She just stood there, a single white rose in her hand, radiating calm control. I hated her for it. Or maybe I envied it.
After the service, as the crowd shuffled out with casseroles and polite words, I caught Hank by the doorway. He was already scrolling his phone, half-checking messages, half-escaping reality.
“I have to head back tomorrow, Nat,” he said without looking up. “Time for our quarterly meetings. You know how it is.”
I didn’t, but I nodded anyway.
“Becca?” he called over his shoulder. “You staying, or coming with me? I need my own bed and some sleep.”
“I’ll stay,” she said without hesitation.
“I’ll stay too,” I said quickly. “To help with the house.”
Becca looked at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, then offered a polite, practiced smile.
“That would be… helpful, Natalie,” she said softly, her voice distant, like she wasn’t sure if I could be trusted with the fragile remnants of my mother’s life.
Maybe she was right.
The first two days were quiet. Barely a word passed between us. Becca moved through my mother’s house with a precision that almost hurt to watch. She labeled boxes, sorted insurance papers with a highlighter and calculator, wiped counters multiple times, and even ate standing at the kitchen counter, eyes fixed on the tree in the backyard. There were no tears, no dramatic sighs. Only methodical care.
I followed her sometimes—not because I was helping, though I told myself I was—but because I needed to make sure she wasn’t tossing anything sentimental. My mother’s handwritten recipes, her chipped coffee mug, even the ridiculous ceramic frog I made in sixth grade. But Becca treated everything like it was sacred.
“She hated clutter,” she said on Thursday morning, stacking crossword books into a neat pile. “And she loved scones. Aunt Cathy dropped some off this morning. They’re in the kitchen, Nat.”
“She did,” I said, arms crossed. “But she also never threw anything away. Bet these books are finished.”
“They are,” Becca said, offering a small, distant smile. “She said finishing them made her feel accomplished. Maybe that’s why she kept them.”
“She told you that?” I asked, surprised.
“Natalie, your mother told me a lot of things,” she said simply.
The words stung more than I expected.
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to sound defensive.
“She hated how quiet the house felt after you moved out,” Becca said softly, stacking another book. “She’d open your old room door just to see the messy boxes and books you left. She loved seeing your chaos. Maybe… maybe she hoped you’d come back for them.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“She never told you that?” Becca asked, softer now.
“No,” I murmured, staring at my socks. “She didn’t.”
Something shifted in me then. It was like Becca had a secret window into my mother’s soul, one I had never been allowed to look through.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The hallway light stretched shadows across the floor, but I didn’t head to my old room. I padded instead to the kitchen, cold tile beneath my bare feet.
The fridge hummed. On the second shelf, a peach cobbler sat, still wrapped in foil. I peeled back a corner and spooned a bite straight into my mouth. Cinnamon, sugar, and dust, all mingling into a taste that was comfort and grief at once.
I unlocked my phone. Nothing. Hank hadn’t messaged. I scrolled to Josh, my ex. His last text, six weeks ago: “Hope your mom gets better. Let me know if you want to talk, Nat.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “Not anymore.”
Upstairs, I passed my old room, my footsteps soft. I stopped at her room. Her bed was neat, but I could picture it as it had been: lotion by the lamp, reading glasses folded carefully, a worn mystery novel.
Beneath the bed was a shoebox tied with a sky-blue ribbon.
I lifted the lid. Inside were letters—so many letters. All addressed to Becca. Some yellowed, some crisp. Dates spanning almost four years.
“Dear Becca, I know I act like I’m fine, but I’m not. Thank you for sitting with me last Thursday. Your banana bread is awful, love, but it reminded me I’m not alone.”
Another: “Thank you for driving me to the oncologist. I didn’t want Natalie to see me like that. She’s so sensitive, Becca. And Hank… he didn’t reply.”
Another: “You’ve given me more kindness than I deserve. I know I gave you a hard time in the beginning, honey. I’m so proud to call you my child.”
No letters to me. None to Hank. Only Becca.
The next morning, I found her on the porch, coffee in hand, hair loose and messy from sleep. Steam curled from her mug in the crisp air. She didn’t look at me. She just sipped slowly.
“You visited her,” I said softly. “You… helped her.”
“Of course,” she said plainly. “Twice a week. Sometimes more.”
I sat beside her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“She didn’t want you to know,” Becca said, eyes on the yard. “She was afraid you’d feel guilty.”
“But I should feel guilty. I left… and didn’t come back properly.”
“You shouldn’t, Nat. You were living your life. That’s what she wanted. And Hank…”
“Hank was Hank,” I finished. We exhaled at the same time.
“Your mom didn’t want to be your burden. But she let herself be mine. I didn’t mind.”
Her words had a softness I’d never heard from Becca.
“I always thought you were cold,” I admitted.
“I always thought you hated me,” she said.
“You know what? I think I did. A little.”
We laughed, fragile and awkward.
“She loved you,” I said quietly. “I only realize now how much.”
“She tried to tell me,” Becca murmured. “In the only way she could. Through her writing.”
The silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Something was shifting. Not healed, but softer.
Hank called later that day.
“Hey, how’s it going, Nat?”
“As well as it can. Strange being here without Mom.”
“And I’m sure Becca’s busy being… Becca, huh?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know,” he laughed. “Efficient. Robotic. Not falling apart.”
“You have no idea. Becca took care of Mom. You didn’t. Neither did I.”
“I sent money. Tried to visit. Did what I could.”
“Mom needed your presence, not a bank account.”
“God, you sound just like her,” he snapped.
“Like who?”
“Like Becca! Stop.”
Her name landed like a gift I hadn’t expected to want.
Later, I found Becca in the kitchen, staring at a tin of tea.
“She saved this one,” she said. Jasmine and orange peel—my mother’s favorite. Reserved for people who mattered.
“She only made this for birthdays,” I said. “And once on Thanksgiving.”
“She made it for me once, after a doctor’s appointment. Maybe she didn’t dislike me as much as I thought,” Becca said.
“Then let’s make some now,” I said. We steeped the tea together, poured it, and sat down.
We cooked, too. Her favorite squash soup in Mom’s blue pot. Together. A strange sense of belonging settling between us.
Next morning, Becca folded a green cardigan from the laundry basket, trembling slightly.
“She was wearing this when she told me the chemo wasn’t working,” Becca said.
“She said the sweater made her feel like herself,” I murmured.
Silence fell. Not heavy. Not painful. Mellow. Soft.
Later, over lukewarm tea, I whispered, “She kept all your letters.”
“She asked me not to throw them out. On the last day, she told me to leave the box under the bed.”
“Why?”
“Just in case you needed to understand what we had, Nat. She let me in, too.”
“She was softer with you,” I said.
“She let me see her pain. That’s not the same thing. She needed a shoulder to lean on.”
“I thought I was her daughter,” I whispered.
“You were,” Becca said, voice breaking. “And because of that, you were the one she fought hardest to keep whole.”
We didn’t speak much after that. But something had changed. Not forgiveness, not full understanding. But finally, we saw each other. And that was everything.