Emma stood at the edge of the grave, watching as her fathers coffin was lowered into the ground.
It was cold. The biting November wind tugged at the ribbons of the funeral wreath, seeped under her coat, and had her shivering.
Beside her, Aunt Mildred a distant relative Emma had barely seen before sniffled quietly.
Her mum held herself together, upright and dignified, but the hand gripping Emmas was icy and trembling.
Dad…
Emma stared at the coffin, trying to untangle her own feelings.
Nothing.
An echoing emptiness rang inside her, like a house abandoned for winter, long since the radiators ceased to warm it.
He was a good man, someone murmured behind her. May he rest in peace.
Emma almost laughed.
Good man?
How would they know?
They only saw him at family gatherings, sober, grinning, cracking jokes, singing along to old tunes. Golden hands, life of the party, funny chap.
That was it.
They never knew what he was like at home.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut, and memory offered up a scene: she was seven, waking at night to a crash. Dad stumbling into the hallway, drunk and slurring, pungent with stale beer and sour breath. Mum dragging him to bed, him lashing out, yelling: No respect for me! Emma would pull the duvet to her eyes, trying to muffle the shouts, wishing not to see or hear.
In the morning, Dad would sit at the kitchen table with a sheepish face, sipping pickle juice and saying, Sorry, love, slipped up. Wont happen again.
But it always happened again.
Every time.
Emma opened her eyes. The coffin was covered now, wreaths stacked atop the mound. People trickled toward the cemeterys gates. Mum touched her elbow.
Come on, love. The wake
At the wake, Emma felt an outsider. She ate, nodded, replied to condolences. Inside, only one thought echoed, so loud it made her want to howl:
Why dont I feel anything? Why doesnt it hurt?
Later, once the guests left, Emma sat in the kitchen with Mum. They drank tea, quiet between them. Then Mum spoke:
You know, I had a strange thought just now
Emma looked up.
I thought its all right now. We dont have to be afraid. Hes not going to collapse somewhere, freeze, disappear. We can just live.
Emma stared at her mother and, in her eyes, saw the same horror she felt herself: not grief, but relief.
Am I a terrible person? Mum whispered.
Emma slid across and wrapped her arms around her.
No, Mum. Were not terrible. Were just tired.
They sat like that until dawn. Remembering. Not the drinking, but other things: Dad building Emma a dolls house, teaching her to ride a bicycle, and the day he brought home a giant watermelon from the market, and the three of them sat on the kitchen floor, eating because there was no room at the table.
He had his moments. That, too, was true.
Mum went to bed. Emma stayed, alone. She picked up her phone and sent a text to her husband: “I’m all right. Ill come tomorrow.
And suddenly, for the first time in weeks, she realised she was breathing easy. No anxiety. No waiting for bad news. No relentless, exhausting background noise.
Dad was gone. The chaos had finally settled.
Emma knew the guilt would return. Night after night, she would wake with that ache. Aunt Mildred and the rest would whisper, Cold-hearted, didnt even cry.
But now, in this quiet flat no stench of drink, no midnight rows Emma allowed herself a moment of honesty.
Sorry, Dad, she said to the empty room. I did love you. Honestly. But I was so tired of hating you.
In the morning, she left.
On the train, she watched the bleak November countryside flit past, then took out her notebook and wrote the reply that answered her thoughts:
Children of alcoholics dont cry at funerals. Theyve already cried years worth, living beside the disease. They arent cold-hearted. They simply survived.
Emma closed the notebook and, for the first time in ages, smiled.
The train carried her toward another life. A life with no need to look over her shoulder.
