Bad mourning

I was here, this morning, in this moment, wishing I could be anywhere else.

I gazed around the room, a sea of black. Black dresses. Black suits. Hundreds of them. The fluorescent lighting in the church was painfully bright, yet the room still felt dim. Somber. I scanned the crowd carefully without making direct eye contact. Anytime someone tried to catch my gaze, I immediately darted my eyes to the floor. I guarantee Brett hadn’t even met three-quarters of these people.

I choked back tears as I approached his open casket. I stared at the face that had once kissed mine intimately for years. The face I saw every day. The man who helped me raise our three children. I reached down and grabbed his hand. It was ice cold.

I couldn’t help but silently commend the mortician for making him look human again, despite the fact that he’d been brutally murdered.

The police were working day and night trying to solve the case. Brett was a public figure—almost like the mayor of our small town—and crimes like this didn’t happen here.

Sure, he’d done shady things. Only I knew the extent of them. Sure, he got violent with me on nights he drank too much after long hours at the “office.” Funny how death works, though. The bad memories blur while the good ones slip through the cracks and rise to the surface.

To everyone else, Brett was a god.

The man who threw the best parties. Served the finest caviar. Opened the most expensive bottles of wine. A philanthropist on the surface. A successful businessman. The belle of the ball.

Maybe people came to the funeral out of admiration and respect. Maybe it was just another strategic business move to align themselves with the right people.

Regardless of their intentions, here I was, holding my children together while we stared down at a man everyone claimed to know so well—yet we knew so very little.

Rumors had already started spreading through town about who could’ve done this. Of course people looked at me, his wife. Of course they whispered about how distant we’d seemed for years.

But me? A killer?

There was no way.

I may have hated him. I may have worked up the courage to leave him every single day. But I didn’t have it in me to kill.

No. Seeing him like this—lifeless, hollow-eyed—hurt more than I wanted to admit. Those same eyes had looked at our baby boy the day he was born. Those same eyes had promised me forever at the altar.

“Martha, I am so, so sorry for your loss.”

My best friend Penelope touched my shoulder, pulling me away from the casket before wrapping me in a warm embrace.

“Thank you, dear.” I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue.

“Screw all these people and what they think,” she said firmly. “I know you. I know you didn’t do this.”

I’d been hearing variations of that all afternoon, as if nobody could think of another condolence besides, Sorry for your loss. I know you’re not a murderer.

Little did they know I’d carefully powdered over my black eye so no one would realize it came from him.

The entire time, I kept glancing over at my youngest, Darren. He hadn’t slept in days. Not since the murder happened a week ago.

He wasn’t so little anymore at sixteen. He stood in front of the casket for what felt like hours, completely motionless. No tears. No expression. Just staring.

I walked over and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Honey? How are you holding up?”

He shrugged without looking at me. His fists slowly tightened at his sides.

Finally, he turned to face me, his ice-blue eyes cold and unreadable.

“I don’t care that he’s dead.”

I choked back tears once more.

I wanted to disappear. Crawl into a hole and hide for eternity. But my children needed me. I needed to be strong for them.

People continued taking turns paying their respects to my late husband until the church doors suddenly burst open.

Police officers flooded inside.

They pushed past swarms of startled guests and headed straight toward my family.

One of the officers grabbed Darren and roughly pulled his arms behind his back before snapping handcuffs around his wrists.

“Darren Cain, you are under arrest for the murder of Brett Cain. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“No—no, no, no!” I shrieked, collapsing to the floor. “That’s his father! He would never—”

“Ma’am,” the officer interrupted firmly, “we found the murder weapon in his room. I advise you not to say another word.”

“Mom,” Darren said quietly as they led him past me. A small, unsettling smile tugged at his lips. “I did it for us. Now he’ll never touch you again.”

Gasps rippled through the church.

People whispered behind trembling hands, eyes wide with shock as Darren was escorted down the aisle in handcuffs. By morning, this would be the only thing anyone in town talked about. Maybe for the next ten years.

The same town I had grown to despise, yet somehow still felt trapped inside.

The room seemed colder now. My heart sank deep into my stomach as I remained frozen on my knees.

Was Darren planning this all along? Was it impulse? He was only a teenager.

Within a single week, my entire world had collapsed.

As I knelt there with my husband’s casket looming behind me, I watched the silhouette of my son disappear through the church doors and into his fate.

Darren was tried as an adult and sentenced to life in prison. He told the public the truth about his dad and my belated husband and why he did it.

”My dad got what he deserved. Now he’ll have to face his consequences in hell.”

His words made me shudder as I braced my other two kids and realized for the first time in my life, I was truly helpless.