But it ended in death anyway.
All her effort. All her sacrifices. Her job. Her pride.
Her mother was gone.
The sky was gray—dense, unmoving. Not raining, not sunny. Just gray.
Like someone had wrung the color out of the world and left it to dry over the cemetery.
Mae stood near the casket, unmoving. Dressed in black, collarbone exposed to the cold air, arms stiff at her sides. Her hands had stopped shaking hours ago. Everything inside her was still. Stiff. Pressed so deep into her ribs it didn't know how to surface anymore.
One by one, people came and went.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"She was a good woman."
"She's in a better place now."
Mae nodded to each. A slight dip of the chin. A tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She barely heard them. It all came as static—voices under water. Faces blurred by grief she hadn't let touch her yet.
Her fingers clutched the stem of a white flower. She hadn't laid it down.
Couldn't.
Around her, the scent of earth and old perfume mingled with fading lilies and cheap cologne. The kind of smells that clung to funerals and never really left.
The service had ended. Most had wandered to their cars. Some whispered softly in little clumps, glancing her way, but she didn't look up.
Then she heard it—measured footsteps over damp grass.
"Miss Mae?"
A man stood before her, early sixties, gray suit, steel-rimmed glasses, a black folder pressed tightly to his chest. She turned slightly.
"I'm Jonathan Harvell. Your mother's attorney."
She said nothing. Only nodded once.
He hesitated. Cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to intrude on a difficult day, but… there are matters we must discuss."
She looked at him properly now. Her face was blank, but something about her silence made him shift his weight uncomfortably.
"I assume you're aware of her financial situation?" he asked carefully.
Mae's brow barely twitched. "She was living on pension. And I paid the hospital bills."
"Yes. And she was also under an existing private debt."
He opened the folder with careful precision, pulling out a stamped document.
"She took out a private loan years ago. Fifty thousand. Your father signed it. After he passed, the liability transferred solely to her. She was repaying it in monthly installments."
Mae stared.
"I'm sorry," he added, voice lower now, "but with her passing, that liability now moves to her next of kin."
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
"You mean… me."
"I'm afraid so."
He handed her the paper.
She didn't take it.
She just stood there, a still figure in the windless cemetery, her expression blank—frighteningly blank.
He adjusted his tie, looking almost guilty. "You don't have to decide anything today. I can send the paperwork. But legally—yes. You're responsible."
She slowly took the document, eyes still on him. Her fingers didn't tremble. Her breathing stayed quiet. But something behind her eyes… broke a little.
Not enough to see. But enough to feel.
"Thank you," she said flatly.
It was the only thing she could say.
He nodded and stepped away.
Mae stared down at the paper in her hand, the names, the numbers, the signatures.
Her throat felt tight. But no tears came.
And not now.
Her eyes stayed dry. Her spine stayed straight.
But inside her chest, everything was folding in on itself, crushing slowly. Like a building with its foundation eaten away.
She turned back to the casket.
Laid the white flower down.
Then she stood there—alone—watching as strangers began to fill her mother's grave with soil.
And still…
She didn't cry.
The weather hadn't improved. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Rain fell like sheets of broken glass, relentless and loud, hammering the pavement and windows as if the sky itself wanted to punish the earth. Mae stepped out of the cab without an umbrella, the funeral file tucked tightly against her chest. Her clothes clung to her, soaked through before she even reached the building.
Her apartment smelled of damp plaster and detergent that had never been rinsed properly. The kind of place where the floor always felt a little cold, and no matter how many windows you opened, the air refused to feel fresh.
She closed the door behind her with the slow push of someone too tired to slam it. Then turned on the light.
It flickered once before humming to life.
The file in her hand felt heavier now. She dropped it onto the small dining table without looking at it and walked toward the kitchen. Her steps were sluggish, her limbs stiff. She hadn't eaten. Hadn't drunk water. Her throat was dry from crying—but not the loud kind. The silent, inward kind. The kind that steals your breath without ever giving you the dignity of tears.
She reached the sink for a glass and stopped.
There was a small box on the counter. White. Probably from a bakery.
She frowned. Her eyes dropped to the note resting beside it.
"Happy birthday, Mae.
And make sure to pay your rent early this time."
—M.
Her landlord.
Birthday?
For a second, she just stood there staring at the note like it was written in another language. Her birthday. She had forgotten. Completely. And now that she remembered, she couldn't understand why it mattered.
She opened the box slowly, as if it might bite her.
Inside sat a small cake. Slumped to one side. The edges were dried out and cracked. A faint green shadow was starting to creep into one corner—mold. Leftovers from yesterday's shelf, at best. Something someone had been about to throw out.
She should have laughed.
She didn't.
Instead, she reached in, pulled out the stubby candle that had been stuck in the box, and set it upright in the middle of the collapsing cake.
She lit it.
The flickering flame glowed gently, casting golden light into the otherwise stale kitchen. The scent of smoke and wax mingled with the mildew that clung to the walls. For a moment, it almost felt warm.
Mae leaned against the counter, arms limp at her sides, watching the little flame dance.
The warmth of it lit up her face—but something in her cracked as it did. Her expression, held in check all day, began to shift. The tightness in her jaw loosened. Her eyes shimmered, then blurred.
The candle was shrinking.
So was her strength.
Her lips moved.
"I don't want this life," she whispered. "I want a new one. I hate this dog-like life…"
Her body shuddered, a tremor moving from her shoulders to her fingertips.
The words her boss had screamed echoed again—You're a waste of space… What the fuck do I pay you for?
Her mother's still, cold hand flashed before her.
The lawyer's voice—The debt now transfers to you.
The rain outside pounded harder. The clouds growled like beasts. Lightning flashed white across the windows.
"I hate this life," she said again, louder now, her voice ragged. "If only he knew what life I was living…"
Her shoulders caved in. Her back bent. And then—
She blew out the candle.
The tiny flame vanished. Smoke coiled up like a ghost in the air.
And finally—
The tears came.
Life had become bitter, She was weak she was powerless and anyone could walk all over her.
She dropped to her knees on the kitchen floor, her arms wrapped around her chest as her body crumbled in on itself. "Agh!!!!" Her mouth was open letting out the gruesome screams. Her sobs didn't sound like crying. They sounded like breaking. Like something deep had split and couldn't be stitched back. "I need a new life!!"
Thunder cracked above her, shaking the windows.
She didn't hear it.
The rain came harder.
She didn't care.
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