Now Life Can Begin
Emily stood at the edge of the grave, watching the coffin being lowered into the earth.
It was cold. November wind tugged at the mourning ribbon on the wreath, slipped under my coat, and made me shiver despite myself.
Next to me, Aunt Maureendistant kin Id hardly knownwas sniffling quietly.
Mum kept herself composed, but the hand she gripped mine with was icy cold.
Dad
I stared at the coffin, trying desperately to sense what I was feeling.
Nothing.
Absolute, ringing emptiness inside me. Like a frozen house where the radiators had long been shut off.
He was a good man, somebody murmured behind me. May he rest in peace.
I nearly burst out laughing.
Good? Really?
How would they know?
They saw him at festive gatherings, sober, smiling, cracking jokes with his accordion. Golden hands, the life of the party, such a cheerful bloke.
But that was all.
No one knew what he was like at home.
I closed my eyes, and memories surfaced: I must have been seven, woken by a crash in the night. Dad stumbling home, unable to find the door, reeking of stale beer and something sour. Mum struggling to haul him to bed while he yelled, flailing: You dont respect me! I would squeeze my eyes tight, tug the duvet over my head, wishing I could shut out every sound and sight.
In the morning, Dad would be at the kitchen table, haunted and remorseful, sipping pickle brine and muttering, Sorry, love, lost control. Wont happen again.
But it always did.
Over and over again.
I opened my eyes. The coffin was covered; wreaths lay atop the mound. People began to drift towards the cemetery exit. Mum touched my elbow:
Come on, dear. The wake
At the funeral meal, I sat in silence. I ate, nodded, responded to condolences, but all the while one thought hammered inside me, threatening to make me scream:
Why dont I feel anything? Why doesnt it hurt?
That evening, after everyone left, Mum and I sat together in the kitchen. We drank tea silently. Eventually, she said:
You know, Ive just thought Something odd.
I looked up.
I thought, now we dont have to be afraid. He wont collapse in the street, freeze somewhere, go missing. We can just live.
I gazed at Mum and saw the same terror in her eyes that echoed in methe terror that what we felt wasnt grief, but relief.
Am I awful? she whispered.
I moved over, put my arm around her shoulders.
No, Mum. Were not awful. Were just exhausted.
We stayed that way till dawn. Rememberingnot the drinking, but something else: how he built me a dolls house, taught me to ride a bike, how once he brought home an enormous watermelon and we ate it together, sitting on the floor when we couldnt all fit at the table.
He was complicated. That, too, was true.
Mum went to bed, leaving me alone. I grabbed my phone and typed a message to Tom, my husband: Im alright. Ill be back tomorrow.
And suddenly, I realised that for the first time in ages, my breathing was steady. No anxiety. No waiting for a phone call with bad news. No endless, exhausting worry in the background.
Dad was gone. And at last, life was peaceful.
I knew that thought would return. That guilt would wake me sometimes in the night. That Aunt Maureen and the rest of the clan would whisper: Shes so cold, she didnt even shed a tear.
But right then, in that quiet flat, with no stench of stale drink and no midnight shouting, I allowed myself one honest moment.
Sorry, Dad, I said to the emptiness. I did love you. I truly did. But I was so tired of hating you.
In the morning, I left.
On the train, I spent ages gazing out at the bleak November countryside, then took out my notebook and wrote down an answer to my thoughts:
Children of alcoholics dont cry at funerals. Theyve already cried enough for years living alongside that disease. And they arent cold-hearted. They simply survived.
I closed my notebook and smiled for the first time in a long while.
The train carried me toward another life. One where I wouldnt have to keep looking over my shoulderOutside, the city woke with pale sunlight sifting through mist. As the train rattled over bridges, past sleeping suburbs, I watched the day grow brighter. My phone vibratedTom: Thinking of you. Dinner tonight?
I replied, Yes. Lets cook together.
A hush of relief bloomed inside me. I felt lighter, not because things had vanished, but because I didnt have to pretend anymore. Not to myself.
As the train slid into the station, I stood and felt the weight of what Id carried all these yearsa weight I could finally set down. I stepped onto the platform, listening to the new morning, to the uncertain warmth in my chest.
The past would always be thereshadowed, knottedbut I was moving forward, into a day where fear no longer ruled every corner. I inhaled deeply, letting Novembers chill tingle my lungs, and walked away into the world that was waiting for me, ready to live, ready to begin again.
