The Funeral
When my mother passed eight months ago after a brief, brutal fight with cancer, I was devastated. She had always been my anchor. In her final days, she made me promise to live without resentment.
And so, when I flew back to Boston for the funeral, I prepared myself to see Stephanie.
Still, nothing could prepare me for the sight of her strolling into the chapel, Nathan on her arm, wearing grief like a designer coat and a diamond like a trophy.
When Zachary stepped away to greet one of my uncles, Stephanie seized the moment.
“I just thought you should know,” she whispered as we stood in a quiet hallway, “Nathan and I are doing great. Summer house in Cape Cod. Talking about kids. It must be hard for you—still alone at your age.”
Six years ago, her words would’ve shattered me.
Now? They sounded like static.
I smiled. “Have you met my husband yet?”
Her face twitched. “Husband?”
“Zachary,” I said, opening the door to the side room. “Come meet my sister.”
He stepped in, tall and calm, just as Nathan rounded the corner.
The moment their eyes met, something shifted.
“Foster,” Nathan said, paling. “You two… are married?”
“Two wonderful years,” I replied, lacing my fingers with Zachary’s.
Stephanie’s voice wavered. “Zachary Foster? As in Foster Investments?”
“The same,” I said, my voice light but steady. “Zachary, this is my sister, Stephanie.”
The air was thick with unspoken truths. Nathan knew exactly who Zachary was. They’d been on opposite sides of a major acquisition years ago—and Nathan lost. Badly.
Stephanie blinked like the truth had finally landed.
