Now We Can Live
Emily stood at the edge of the grave, watching the coffin as it was lowered into the earth.
The chill of November cut to the bone, a biting wind tugging at the black ribbon on the wreath, creeping beneath her coat and making her shoulders shiver.
Beside her, Aunt Edith let out quiet, broken sobsa distant relative whom Emily had met only a handful of times.
Emilys mother kept herself composed, but the fingers gripping Emilys hand were icy cold.
Her father…
Emily gazed at the coffin, searching for something inside herself.
There was nothing.
Just a ringing, absolute emptinessa silence like the heart of a house abandoned for years without warmth.
He was a good man, someone murmured behind her. May he rest in peace.
Emily nearly laughed aloud.
Good, really?
How would they know?
They saw him at family gatherings, sober, smiling, playing his accordion. Golden hands, life of the party, such a cheerful fellow.
And that was all.
They didnt know him at home.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut, and her memory brought back a vivid scene: she was seven years old, woken in the night by crashing noises. Her father staggered through the doorway, missing it completely, reeking of stale alcohol and something sour. Her mother struggled to pull him through to the bedroom. He fought her, waving his arms and shouting, You never respect me! Emily hid beneath her blanket, pulling it up to her eyes so she wouldnt see or hear anything.
The next morning, her father sat at the kitchen table, sheepish, sipping pickled brine and muttering, Sorry, love, I slipped up. It wont happen again.
But it did.
It always did.
Emily opened her eyes. The earth had already covered the coffin, wreaths arranged atop the mound. People began drifting towards the exit of the cemetery. Her mother touched her elbow.
Come along, darling. The wake
Emily sat at the table as if she were someone else, eating, nodding, replying to the awkward condolences. All the while, one thought thudded in her head, nearly driving her to scream:
Why dont I feel anything? Why doesnt it hurt?
That evening, with the guests gone, she remained in the kitchen with her mother. They sipped tea in silence. Then her mother spoke:
You know I had a strange thought.
Emily looked up.
I thoughtnow we dont have to be afraid. He wont collapse in the street or freeze in the night, he wont disappear. We can simply live.
Emily saw in her mothers eyes the same terror she felt herself. The fear that what they felt wasnt grief, but relief.
Am I awful? her mother whispered.
Emily moved to her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
No, Mum. Were not awful. Were just tired.
They sat together until dawn. Rememberingnot the bottles, but other things: the dolls house her father built for Emily, teaching her how to ride a bicycle, that enormous watermelon he once brought home from the market and they ate together on the kitchen floor, because it wouldnt fit on the table.
He was complicated. And that was the truth, too.
Her mother went to bed, while Emily stayed behind. She took out her phone, typed a message to her husband: Im alright. Ill come tomorrow.
Suddenly she realisedfor the first time in days, she was breathing evenly. Without dread. Without waiting for the phone to ring with bad news. Without that constant, exhausting tension.
Her father was gone. And at last, her world was calm.
She knew the thought would return. She would wake at night with guilt tightening in her chest. Aunt Edith and the rest would whisper for months: So cold, she didnt even cry.
But now, in this quiet flat, with no stink of spirits and no sound of midnight arguments, Emily gave herself a single moment of honesty.
Forgive me, Dad, she said to the empty room. I loved youtruly. But I was so tired of hating you.
In the morning, she left.
On the train, she watched the grey November countryside drift by, then took out her notebook and wrote the answer that had finally come to her mind:
Children of alcoholics dont cry at funerals. They have already cried all their tears living with the disease. And they are not heartless. Theyve simply survived.
Emily closed the notebook and, for the first time in ages, smiled.
The train carried her towards another life. A life where she no longer had to look over her shoulder.
