In stories I’ve heard, death of a family member was supposed to unite the living relatives.

That was a lie.

After Mother’s death, Gran and I’s already fractured relationship twisted itself and blackened even more as the mourning days stretched out. She was angry, angry, angry. A seething black hole that viciously lashed at anything that veered near her. Not just on me, but also on her friends, her colleagues at the library where she volunteered, the kids she helped to locate books, the young parents, the just-married couples, the baker, the cashier, men and women, herself. Anybody. Everybody.

I was scared of coming over to pick her up, to talk or even to ask how was she on any giving day. Opening my mouth became death calling.

Gran started to bring back Jesse. And Father. And Mother’s idiotic love. And me. The hateful words that I’ve temporarily forgotten came back in the form of high-pitched, bitter screeches and whispers. My head would spin in wide circles, and I could only helplessly bit my lips and wait until she completely broke down to inch forward and offer Gran tissues. Sometimes, Gran would threw the box at my face and screamed at me to leave her alone. I would get up and numbly walked out to the backyard, listening to Gran’s muffled sobs through the thin walls and door.