My Stepmother's Betrayal

The sky mourned with us, spilling soft rain that blurred the faces of the grieving crowd into a sea of black. Umbrellas dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sorrow.

I stood still, rooted to the ground, my fingers clenched around a trembling umbrella. My eyes didn't stray from the polished coffin resting above the grave. The priest's voice echoed in the background, his words hollow like whispers lost in a storm.

My mother was gone.

The reality hadn't sunk in. It circled in my mind like a ghost, repeating itself without mercy.

Where do I begin without her? How do I survive this cruel world without her strength to anchor me?

I didn't cry.

I couldn't.

I had cried too much already — in sterile hospital corridors, in the lonely nights filled with silence, in the hollow spaces her absence carved in my soul. Now, I was numb. Broken.

My hand trembled as I gripped a bouquet of white lilies her favorite. She never got the farewell she deserved. She slipped away at dawn, surrounded not by family, but by beeping machines and the sterile smell of death.

Dad hadn't even been there.

A light tug on my arm snapped me out of my trance.

My father pulled me into a hug, his suit damp from the rain, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of his grief. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, fragile and unsteady.

"Daddy," I whispered, my voice hoarse.

He didn't speak. Just held me tighter before slowly letting go. His gaze moved over the gathered mourners — familiar faces from our neighborhood, distant relatives, church friends. People who came to honor the woman who had touched all their lives.

And then, I saw her.

Mirabel.

She stood apart from the others, poised and picture-perfect. A sleek black dress clung to her curves. Her red lips were painted with precision. No tears. No swollen eyes. Just a faint smile carefully stretched across her face.

The smile of someone attending a social event — not a funeral.

My mother's best friend.

My stomach twisted. Something about her didn't fit. Her gaze found mine, cool and unreadable, and lingered just a second too long. A shiver danced down my spine.

Why is she looking at me like that?

I turned away, willing the unease to disappear. But it clung to me like the rain.

As the priest's final prayer echoed through the stillness, my father wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "We'll get through this, Nina," he murmured. "Together."

I nodded silently, but my eyes drifted back to Mirabel.

Her gaze was still on me — calm, unwavering, almost too calm. She offered a soft smile, but it didn't touch her eyes. Not even close.

The service ended. One by one, people approached the grave to toss in a flower and say goodbye. When it was my turn, I stepped forward and let the lilies fall from my fingers onto the coffin.

"I love you, Mama," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. "And I will find out what really happened to you."

I turned to leave.

And there she was again — Mirabel, watching me.

Her smile deepened, but her eyes… cold. Knowing.

I didn't imagine it.

Something was off.

Something was very, very wrong.

And in that moment, I understood:

This funeral wasn't the end.

It was the beginning.