Now We Can Live
Emily stands at the edge of the grave, watching as the coffin is lowered into the earth.
It’s cold. The November wind tugs at the mourning ribbon on the wreath, sneaks under her coat, making her shiver and huddle her shoulders.
Beside her, Aunt Judith sobs quietlya distant relative Emily has met only a few times in her life.
Her mother keeps herself composed, but her fingers gripping Emily’s hand are icy cold.
Father…
Emily fixes her eyes on the coffin, trying to decipher what she feels.
Nothing.
An absolute, ringing emptiness inside, like an abandoned house where heating has long been switched off.
He was a good man, someone murmurs behind her. May he rest in peace.
Emily nearly bursts out laughing.
Good?
How would they know?
They saw him at family gatherings, sober, charming, playing the accordion. Golden hands, the life and soul of the party, such a jolly chap.
That was all.
They didnt know what he was like at home.
Emily closes her eyes, and her memory serves up a scene: seven-year-old Emily, waking in the night to the sound of banging. Father stumbling into the hallway, barely making it through the door, smelling of beer and something sour. Mother tries to drag him into the bedroom, but he struggles, flailing his arms, shouting, You dont respect me! Emily squeezes her eyes shut, pulling the duvet up over her face, hoping not to see or hear anything.
The next morning, Father sits in the kitchen, wearing a guilty expression, gulping down tomato juice and saying, Im sorry, sweetheart, I slipped up. It wont happen again.
But it always happened again.
Always.
Emily opens her eyes. The grave is covered now, wreaths laid on the mound. People start heading toward the cemetery gates. Her mother touches her elbow:
Come on, darling. Weve got the wake to attend
At the gathering afterward, Emily feels out of place. She eats, nods, accepts condolences. But inside, the same thought pounds, louder and louder, until she wants to scream:
Why dont I feel anything? Why doesnt it hurt?
That evening, after everyone has gone, Emily sits with her mother in the kitchen. They drink tea in silence. Then her mother speaks:
You know I’ve just realised something odd.
Emily looks up.
I thought, now we dont have to be afraid anymore. He wont be found somewhere cold in a ditch, he wont disappear. We can just live.
Emily gazes at her mother and sees in those eyes the same terror she feels herself. Terror that inside, theres not grief, but relief.
Does that make me horrible? her mother whispers.
Emily moves closer, wrapping her arm around her.
No, Mum. Were not horrible. Were just exhausted.
They sit together until dawn, reminiscing. Not about how he drank, but different things: how he built Emily a dolls house, taught her to ride a bike, how he once brought home a massive watermelon from the market and they all ate it together, sitting on the floor because it wouldnt fit on the table.
He was complicated. That was true, too.
Later, her mother goes to bed, and Emily is left alone. She pulls out her phone, typing a message to her husband: Im fine. Ill come home tomorrow.
And suddenly she realises shes breathing regularly for the first time in days. No anxiety. No waiting for a call with dreadful news. No relentless, exhausting tension.
Her father is gone. And life, at last, is peaceful.
Emily knows this thought will come back. Shell wake some nights with guilt gnawing at her. Aunt Judith and the other relatives will whisper for a long time: Heartless, not even a tear.
But now, in the quiet flat, where the air no longer reeks of stale alcohol and nights arent shattered by shouting, Emily allows herself a moment of honesty.
Im sorry, Dad, she says to the empty room. I did love you. Really. But I was so tired of hating you.
In the morning, she leaves.
On the train, she spends ages gazing out at the bleak November landscape. Then she takes out her notebook and writes down a thought that comes to her:
Children of alcoholics dont cry at funerals. Theyve shed their tears over years spent living with the illness. Theyre not heartless. They are survivors.
Emily closes the notebook and, for the first time in a long while, smiles.
The train speeds her toward a new life. A life where she no longer has to look backShe watches the landscape flicker pastbare trees, ragged fields, the shine of a distant river. Somehow, the world looks cleaner. The weight that once pressed her chest is gone, and the silence feels gentle, not oppressive.
When her phone buzzes, Emily sees her husband’s name and smiles. She answers, her voice steady, lighter.
Hi, she says. Im coming home.
And for the first time in years, she means it.
As the train rounds a bend and the morning sun breaks through, warming her face, Emily closes her eyes and inhales. Her past is still part of her, the shadows will always be therebut she feels herself moving, finally, toward the light.
She pictures herself opening their front door, stepping inside, breathing air that is just air, not fear. She pictures the space that loss has left behind, where something new might growmaybe forgiveness, maybe strength.
Above all, Emily knows, she will never have to explain. She will just go on living.
The train rolls forward, and so does she, steady on the tracks of her own life.
