Aunt Natalie's voice blurred into the background. Darkness, emptiness, and that same heat behind my ribs—nothing else.
We sat facing each other. She wore a white button-down and blue jeans: comfy but professional. Nephew or not, this was still her job. We were in the small upstairs office. Uncle Frank was in the shower, I thought. Gwen—who knew. I sat there, stuck in my head, regretting that I'd let Grandpa bring me. This was worse than I'd imagined—
"Ben. How did the funeral make you feel? What about after?" Her tone rode the line between familiar and clinical, almost too loud in the quiet. I looked up. She watched me with a serious smile and worried eyes. Five minutes in and I already wanted it to be over.
"Ben?" she prompted.
I exhaled and lifted my hands. Nothing. Disappointment. Sadness. Disbelief. I signed slowly, one by one, as the slight little twitch in my hand was caught in her eye.
She nodded, one eyebrow rising as she glanced down and began to write in her notepad.
"Why is that, Ben? You felt those things—but what made you feel them? Do you know?" She set the pen down and lifted her eyes to me, that patient, practiced smile. It hit like a laser dot on my chest. My tongue stuck to my teeth. I searched for an answer. The A/C kicked harder, a steady drone. Cold air washed over me, a mercy that lasted one breath.
I didn't do the eulogy. I signed and lowered my hands to my lap. She nodded—another note, another scratch of pen. I worried at the skin around my thumb. This wasn't that important—
"Very good, Ben. Now I believe that… not doing the eulogy means something to you," she said, careful, as if each word might crack. "What did it protect you from?" The vent hissed. Lemon cleaner and old carpet.
I rubbed the heat under my ribs with my fist like I could smear it thinner. I shaped the words with my hands. I didn't want to mess it up.
She nodded once. "Okay. Mess it up how?" Make it about me. My fingers hesitated, then kept going. Cry. Forget. Say the wrong story. They'd all look at me.
"Who is 'they'?" she asked. I shrugged, a one-shouldered jerk. Everyone. Grandpa. Gwen. Frank. You. "Me?" Her mouth quirked, not quite a smile. "What would I think?"
That I'm a coward. She didn't write this time. She let it sit in the room between us until the A/C clicked off and the quiet felt full.
"Is that your word, or someone else's?"
Mine.
"Where did you learn it?"
I pressed my thumbnails into the soft moons of my palms. That old heat pulsed like swallowed coal. My head and heart ached, beating all too fast as I signed. My dad. He did. He used to say. If you start. You finish. I didn't do either.
Aunt Natalie didn't look up as she started writing in her notepad again. A small scowl visible on her face before she washed it away as quick as it appeared, almost like makeup, except she wasn't wearing any.
"So you disappointed a rule. Not a person." She tipped her head. "Your father would have wanted you to do the eulogy?", She said but I almost heard the reluctance to mention him at all in her voice. I didn't really wanna talk about him either. it just made my head hurt more.
"What do you think he would say, if he knew you didn't do it, if he knew you had Beatrice speak in your stead?", She asked as she began tapping her foot against the floor, her other crossed on top of the other one. She looked at me more intently than any other time during this session. I stared at her foot. The tap was soft but insistent, a metronome I couldn't get free from.
The coil in my chest tightened. He'd say I cheated, I signed. He'd say I hid behind her voice. That I was a coward. That I was a cockroach.
I stopped abruptly, setting my hands back down quickly. I said too much. it made it all more real. It couldn't be real. I thought as Aunt Natalie quirked her brow, deciding to not pursue that at this moment. Not yet at least.
"Is that what you think you did?" I worked my jaw. Yes. No. I asked her last minute. She said yes. She always says yes.
"Beatrice always says yes," she repeated. "To you?" To everybody. I rubbed the seam of my jeans. She's… good at people. At rooms. At saying things without shaking.
"And what did she say?" Aunt Natalie's tapping slowed. She wasn't writing. Just watching.
I signed. She said yes, of course she would, its Beatrice. And all things considered, she wasn't bad but-
"It wasn't done by someone who knew her, by someone who loved her, it wasn't said by you." Aunt Natalie finished looking at me with an odd sense of understanding. As she brought up her notepad, and began writing again.
I held her gaze and nodded once, the motion stiff.
"It wasn't done by someone who loved him," she said more gently, correcting the pronoun without making a thing of it. "It wasn't said by you."
Him, I signed back, automatic. My hands hovered, then dropped. Right.
She clocked the stumble but didn't press. "How does that land?"
Like a door I didn't open. I rubbed my sternum with the heel of my hand. Like I'm standing on the wrong side, ear to the wood.
"And if you opened it now?" she asked.
The coal flared. Everyone would look.
"Here's the truth," she said. "I'm looking anyway."
I glared at the darker square in the carpet until the shape went fuzzy. The word I'd said earlier curled like smoke at the edge of the room, trying to get away from me.
She waited. Then, softer: "You said 'cockroach.' Whose word?"
I swallowed. His. The signs were small. Once. Twice. It was a… joke, he said. I lied. 'You never die, you just scuttle when it's bright.' He laughed. I laughed too. I tried not to look at her as the mixed half truth and lie left my hands like acid.
"Did you?"
A little. Heat climbed my neck. Then I stopped. I don't think he knew I stopped.
"What did he mean when he said it?"
That I hide. My hands flicked out and in, a half-formed shield. That I'm good at not being seen when it counts.
"Is there a way that trait has ever helped you?" she asked.
I stared at her, surprised. Helped?
"Roaches survive," she said, not kind, not cruel—just stating a fact. "They're not lovable, but they're durable. Sometimes the thing you hate kept you alive. Sometimes it needs a new job."
I looked at my thumbnail, at the little crescent of raw skin I'd worried open. What job?
"Maybe not disappearing," she said, "but choosing when to step into the light, even if you shake."
I signed to her, my hands moving fast. What do you mean?
I pressed my tongue to my teeth, felt it stick there a second, then peel free. I don't like that word.
"Then don't use it." She didn't reach for the pen. "Pick your own."
I thought of the door. The key sound that was never going to come again. Moth, I signed, unexpected. They burn themselves on porch lights. They still go back.
Her mouth tipped at the corner. "You're allowed to be a moth."
A beat passed. The A/C kicked off; the room's edges sharpened in the quiet. The lemon cleaner smell rose again like someone had just wiped the desk, though no one had.
She sighed, studying my face. "Ben, have you ever heard of the five stages of grief?" Her eyes searched me like they could read my whole life.
I shook my head.
"Well, basically—when we lose someone, or when something important ends—" She paused. I hoped she didn't see the flicker of irritation and pain that always came with that word, loss. "We move through five rooms: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Not a staircase. Not in order."
I frowned. She pinched the bridge of her nose, then looked up again.
"First, before I explain more: don't think for a second I didn't notice you lied to me. Second, what's the last thing your mother said to you?"
The word lied landed like a coin on a table—small sound, big echo.
I didn't lie, I signed, then caught myself. Not exactly.
Her eyebrow rose. "Which part wasn't exactly?"
I signed: My dad—he made that joke the last time I saw him. He was laughing. I wasn't.
"Why weren't you laughing, Ben?" she asked, finally planting both feet on the ground. She watched me—gentle but determined. To me it felt like a lion stalking prey.
Because he— Because—The sledgehammer hit. Pain slammed through my skull, like someone brought it down again and again. I folded, kneeling, palms to my face, rubbing my forehead. Aunt Natalie clocked it and pivoted, pen scratching something quick.
"It's okay, Ben. You don't have to talk about it. How about my previous question?"
I looked up, wincing at the pulse behind my eyes. What?
"What was the last thing your mother told you?"
The pain spiked. I waited for her to back off. She didn't. She leaned in.
"What were her last words, Ben? Tell me—let it out. It'll feel better."
The pounding built with her voice.
"What did she say, Ben?"
"Tell me—"
I snapped. She said stay quiet. Stay quiet for Mommy. Happy now? I signed hard, fingers sharp enough to hurt. She didn't flinch. She wrote, then met my eyes, concern heavy there.
"Very," she said.
The word hung between us like a doorstop, keeping something from slamming shut.
She lowered her pen. "Thank you."
I sucked air through my teeth and pressed my thumbs into the corners of my eyebrows, trying to pinch the ache smaller.
Her voice softened. "Headache first. Words second." She nodded to my hands. "Give me one breath, in for four, out for six."
I didn't want to, which was how I knew I needed to. I counted it—one, two, three, four; then the long six out that made my chest sting. The hammer didn't stop, but it set the sledge down.
"Again," she said. We did it twice more. The edges of the room sharpened: lemon cleaner, the hum of the A/C, the faint wet-dog smell that meant Uncle Frank's towel was where it shouldn't be.
She kept her feet flat, hands open on her knees. "When she said stay quiet for Mommy, what did 'quiet' mean in that moment? No sound? No questions? No truth?"
The ache rolled. No sound, I signed. No crying. No calling out. She needed—I stopped. My jaw worked.
"She needed what?"
I don't know. I hated the way the signs faltered. Maybe for it to be easy. Maybe for me not to make it worse.
Aunt Natalie's mouth softened, not pity, not quite. "Sometimes 'quiet' means safe in a particular moment. It doesn't mean forever."
I shook my head, a small, stubborn movement. It felt like forever.
"Yeah," she said. "Words can brand that way."
I stared at the carpet's darker square. If I talk now, I'm breaking it.
"What's it?" she asked. "Her order? Your promise? Your picture of being a good son?"
My promise. The signs landed heavy. I didn't say it out loud, but I kept it.
She nodded, not pressing further.
"Ben—you do realize your mother is dead, right? That she isn't coming back," she said. No padding. Just the truth.
YES SHE IS. MOMMY IS COMING BACK. I JUST NEED TO WAIT FOR HER.The signs cracked out of me, wrists snapping with each word. Heat surged like she'd spit on me. I glared, breath sawing, hands rigid in my lap.
A tear slid down Aunt Natalie's cheek. Another gathered, shook, and fell. "No, Ben. No, sweetheart." Her voice thinned. "Your mom—your grandpa's daughter—she is dead. She isn't coming back. We buried her. You know it."
The room tilted. Something inside me shuddered and didn't catch.
"No," I whispered, voice barely a sound. "No."
It started small—one short breath that skipped—and then another, and then the floor came up into my knees. My fingers went to my sternum and pressed, as if I could hold the coal in place. It slid sideways, molten. I folded over my legs, forehead to carpet. The dark square blurred and swam.
"Breathe with me," she said, but the therapist cadence was gone. "Ben—hey—look at me."
When I couldn't look, she moved. The chair squeaked back. Knees touched carpet. Her hand found my shoulder, then my back, then both arms wrapped around me and pulled me in. No clinician's distance—just Aunt Natalie, warm and shaking, gathering me like I was five and on fire.
"I've got you. I've got you."
I broke.
Sound ripped out of me, raw, ugly, more air than voice. My chest hitched; my mouth wouldn't close; the cry came in waves that made my ribs ache. Snot and tears and heat—humiliating and honest. I clutched the fabric of her shirt and the fabric held. She tucked my head under her chin and rocked without rhythm, small circles like a dock in bad water.
"I know," she said into my hair. "I know."
The A/C droned, then clicked off. In the hall, a floorboard creaked—Gwen's quick weight, then stillness. A mug bumped another—Frank's low curse, choked short. The door stayed shut. They didn't leave. They didn't come in. The house listened.
I cried like a little kid because I was one.
Natalie held on. She didn't shush me. She didn't count. She just rocked us, her breath warm at my ear. My fists bunched her shirt and then let go and then grabbed again, like waves.
Somewhere outside the door, the house made soft people-noises. A sniff that tried to be quiet and wasn't—Gwen. A rough clear of a throat that turned into a broken sound—Frank. A mug set down too carefully. The floorboard with the squeak gave itself away twice. Nobody talked. Water moved in somebody's nose. The whole hallway listened and leaked.
"It's okay," Natalie said, but not like a rule—like a promise. "I've got you, Benny. You cry as long as you need."
I did. My mouth kept opening and the sound kept coming. It got hiccupy. It got high and thin. It got small and tight. I pressed my face into the place where her neck met her shoulder and cried there too, and she let me. She tucked my hair behind my ear and said my name into it, soft, like putting a blanket over a bird.
The coal in my chest burned and burned and then cracked and then burned smaller. My fingers went from claws to heavy to nothing. I couldn't keep them up. My body decided without me. I sagged. She took the weight.
"I know," she whispered, words shaking. "I know, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Outside, a tiny hiccup-laugh sobbed out of Gwen and got swallowed. Frank blew his nose like a truck in a tunnel and then muttered "sorry" to nobody. The door did not open. It didn't have to. I knew they were there the way you know where the sun is with your eyes shut.
My head thudded with its own drum. The room slid sideways and righted and slid again. I tried to pull air in big enough and kept getting little sips. Natalie matched them. Four in. Six out. I rode her numbers like stepping-stones.
"Benny?" she breathed. "Can I pick you up?"
I nodded against her skin because words were too far away. She gathered me, one arm under my knees, one behind my back, and stood slow, careful, knee popping a tiny sound. The world tipped and her shoulder became a pillow. I hung on to her collar and felt the beat in her throat. It was fast and real.
The hallway smelled like soap and wet wool. A hand—Gwen's—touched my hair quick and light as a moth and then pulled back. Frank said "okay" to the air, like a note on a fridge.
"Bedroom," Natalie said to them, voice low and wrecked. "It's ready."
We moved. The house changed under us—doorframe, another carpet, a different squeak. She shouldered a door open with her hip. Cooler air. Darker. A lamp went on and then off again, too much. The room was new and not-ours: clean sheets, a small dresser, a pile of folded shirts, a blanket with squares. Something that smelled like fresh laundry and wood.
She set me down on the bed and didn't take her hands away. She pulled the blanket up to my chest and smoothed it, then tucked the corners like boats. She pressed her palm to my sternum, gentle coin-check, and left it there until my breath met her hand.
"Still here," she whispered.
My eyes slid shut without asking me. They opened once for the ceiling—dark lines I didn't know yet—then shut again. The door stayed cracked. The hallway leaked a sound like rain that wasn't rain. Gwen's little gulps. Frank clearing his throat and failing. Someone set two mugs down on the floor, dull thunks. The house breathed.
"I'm right outside," Natalie said, one hand in my hair now, slow strokes. "Sleep, Benny."
I tried to answer and only got a hum. The hum tipped over into nothing. The bed caught me. The dark came in like a tide and covered me all the way.
When I woke, it was night. The room was a box of quiet with one slice of moon on the wall. The blanket was still a boat around me. The air was cool. The house had gone soft—no A/C, just a distant pipe tick and someone turning over down the hall. The door was still a little open.
I reached up and tapped my forehead with my knuckle, a tiny knock only I could hear.
Still here.
I stared into the distant dark of the ceiling and felt the furnace at the back of my ribs. Hotter now. Stronger. The night replayed.
I didn't notice when my teeth clenched. When my hands did too.
I didn't blink. I didn't notice the blood until it ran.
I didn't know when sadness turned to rage.
I didn't know then. But now, I do.
I'm going to make that purple man pay for what he did to my family.
I'm going to make him feel my wrath.
One day, I'm going to get my revenge.
No matter what.