Chapter 2 - Five Empty Chairs
Saturday arrived cold and gray.
Rachel stood inside St. Luke’s Church wearing a black dress she could not remember buying.
Mark adjusted his tie beside her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
They looked toward the front.
Sophie's small white coffin stood beneath an arrangement of purple flowers.
Her favorite color.
Rachel whispered, “It’s too small.”
Mark’s eyes filled.
“What?”
“The coffin.”
He reached for her hand.
“No parent should ever know what size coffin fits their child.”
Rachel squeezed his fingers.
People entered slowly.
Sophie's soccer coach.
Teachers.
Neighbors.
Parents from school.
Children Rachel barely recognized.
Then an elderly man appeared at the back of the church.
Rachel froze.
“Grandpa?”
Arthur Donovan leaned heavily on a cane.
He had undergone hip surgery two months earlier.
Yet there he was.
He walked down the aisle slowly.
Rachel rushed toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
Arthur frowned.
“Attending my great-granddaughter’s funeral.”
“You drove?”
“Two hours.”
“You shouldn’t be driving that far.”
“You shouldn’t be burying Sophie.”
Rachel’s face collapsed.
Arthur pulled her into his arms.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
She held onto him.
“Did Mum tell you?”
His expression darkened.
“No.”
Rachel pulled back.
“What?”
“A neighbor called me yesterday.”
Rachel stared at him.
Arthur looked around.
“Where is everyone?”
Rachel said nothing.
“Your mother?”
Silence.
“Your father?”
Nothing.
“Daniel?”
Mark stepped beside them.
“They’re at Daniel’s bridal shower.”
Arthur looked at Mark.
“I’m sorry?”
“The shower is today.”
Arthur’s face hardened.
“They knew this funeral was today?”
“Yes.”
“And they went anyway?”
Rachel whispered, “Grandpa, not now.”
He looked toward the first rows.
Five empty chairs stood together.
Rachel had reserved them automatically.
For her mother.
Her father.
Daniel.
Aunt Caroline.
Cousin Brooke.
Arthur stared at the chairs for several seconds.
Then quietly said,
“They chose balloons and champagne over that little girl?”
Rachel looked away.
The funeral began.
Sophie's teacher read a short letter Sophie had written about what she wanted to be when she grew up.
“I want to be a veterinarian because animals don’t care if your hair looks stupid.”
A few people laughed through tears.
Rachel almost smiled.
Then one of Sophie’s friends walked forward.
Emma was nine.
She held a purple friendship bracelet.
She placed it on the coffin.
“This was supposed to be yours.”
Mark covered his face.
Rachel wrapped her arms around him.
Later, while the coffin was lowered beneath a maple tree, Rachel looked toward the road.
For one ridiculous second, she expected to see her parents’ car.
Nothing came.
Arthur stood beside her.
“You waiting for them?”
Rachel shook her head.
“No.”
But she had been.
That night, Rachel sat on the floor in Sophie’s bedroom.
Mark was downstairs speaking with relatives.
Her phone buzzed.
A family group chat.
She almost ignored it.
Then she saw the photograph.
Daniel and Ashley smiling under gold balloons.
Her mother held a champagne flute.
Her father stood beside a three-tier cake.
Behind them was a sign.
FAMILY IS EVERYTHING.
Rachel stared at it.
Then another message appeared.
MOM:
Beautiful day. Wish everyone could have been there.
Rachel left the group.
Five minutes later, her mother called.
Rachel ignored it.
Daniel texted.
SERIOUSLY? YOU LEFT THE FAMILY CHAT?
Rachel blocked him.
Then her father called.
She answered.
“Dad.”
“Your mother is devastated.”
Rachel looked around Sophie’s bedroom.
“About Sophie?”
“No. About how you’re treating everyone.”
Rachel went still.
“What?”
“You left the family group, blocked your brother, and ignored your mother.”
“My daughter was buried today.”
“I understand that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Rachel, grief doesn’t give you permission to punish the entire family.”
Rachel looked toward Sophie’s soccer trophies.
Something inside her became very calm.
“You’re right.”
Her father exhaled.
“Good.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Then call your mother.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Grief doesn’t give me permission to punish anyone.”
Rachel stood.
“But clarity gives me permission to decide who stays in my life.”
“Rachel, don’t be dramatic.”
She looked at the empty pink bed.
“My daughter died.”
“Rachel—”
“And you called me dramatic.”
May you like
She ended the call.
Then she blocked him too.
