Looking at the family of five crying over the loss of a family member, I couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it. Why bother crying over someone who was already gone? It's not like tears were going to bring her back.
You might be wondering how I knew the family so well.
I happen to be a part of it.
Let me introduce myself properly. I am Isabel Johnson, the last child of the family of Seven—now Six. We lost our mom two weeks ago, and today is her burial.
You would think two weeks would be enough time to cry, to grieve, to somehow come to terms with it. But apparently, it isn't. They're still crying as her body is being laid to rest, as if their tears could change anything.
I know I should be sad.
And honestly, I am.
I just don't think crying cuts it.
All crying does is leave you with headaches and swollen eyes, and I'm not willing to go through that for something that won't change the outcome.
I'm sixteen this year, and if we're being honest, I feel like I should be the most affected. But somehow, everyone else seems more broken than I am—and that's the part I don't understand.
I took a year off school to stay with Mom in the hospital. It was just the two of us in that unfamiliar place. We weren't always the best of friends, but at that point, we had no choice but to rely on each other.
So yes, I should be more affected.
At least, that's what makes sense.
I don't know if you understand what it feels like to depend on someone for a whole year in a strange place—especially when you're socially awkward and not used to letting people in—and then suddenly, they're gone.
Just like that.
No warning. No undo button.
Gone.
I am sad. I just don't think people understand that crying doesn't always express what someone is feeling. If crying could bring her back, I would be crying buckets by now.
But it won't.
So what's the point?
I hear people whispering about me—about how weird I am. And honestly, I get it. Who doesn't cry when someone close to them dies?
I agree with them.
Maybe I am weird.
Or maybe I'm just broken.
My emotions have never felt right. In fact, nothing about me has ever really felt right. I find myself sad when others are happy, and when they laugh, I don't always understand why. I see the humor, but I don't feel it the way they do.
And when they're sad, I'm not exactly happy—but I can't seem to share their pain either.
Even now, I know everyone is grieving.
And I am too.
Just… not like them.
Maybe I just accept reality faster than most people.
She's gone. Nothing is going to bring her back. Life moves on, whether we like it or not. It continues as if she was never here, and I don't see the point in sitting down and sulking over something that can't be changed.
Good people die early.
At least, that's what they say.
The burial ends, and we return home.
I hate crowds.
All those people, pretending to care, saying things that don't mean anything. Some of them were crying harder than we were, and I couldn't understand why.
And the food—why do people eat so much at burials?
Being the youngest means running errands, attending to guests, moving up and down when all I really want is silence.
And that's when the anger hits.
I'm angry that Mom died.
If she hadn't, I wouldn't be here, feeling like this.
I know it's not her fault. I know she didn't choose this.
But knowing that doesn't make the anger go away.
My emotions feel wrong.
Twisted.
Out of place.
Maybe I really am broken.
People begin to leave in twos and threes, but it never feels like they're reducing. It's like for every person that leaves, another shows up. Still, it becomes quieter eventually, and I don't mind that.
A few people come to me, asking about her last moments. And strangely, I'm okay with telling them.
At this point, I don't need anyone to tell me I'm weird.
I already know.
It doesn't even sound right in my own head, but I don't care anymore.
After everything quiets down, my family starts to worry about me. They say my emotions aren't normal. They're scared I might do something to myself because, in their eyes, I should be the most affected.
I tell them I'm fine.
They don't believe me.
They tell me to cry, to scream, to let it all out.
I try.
But there's nothing there.
Nothing to release.
And somehow, that makes me feel even worse.
Like I'm failing at something as simple as being human.
Eventually, I see a therapist. He tells me I'm okay—that I might not have fully processed my mom's death yet.
That maybe my mind is protecting me.
I don't really care what he thinks.
But I do like that everyone finally stops bothering me.
For the first time since she died, I'm left alone.
And somehow, in the middle of all that silence, I find something unexpected.
Cooking.
It starts small, but then it becomes something more. My family supports me, and I realize I love it—not just the cooking itself, but the way people react to it.
The way it makes them happy.
And somehow… that makes me happy too.
Cooking feels natural to me, like it's always been there, waiting. It opens my eyes to a different world—one that I actually want to be a part of.
And for once…
Something feels right.