Chapter Sixty Two - Silent Grief

The house felt quieter than usual, the kind of silence that hung thick in the air. Camila sat at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a cold cup of coffee she hadn't touched yet. Her gaze was distant, as though she couldn't really focus on anything for too long. The loss of Cece—the woman who had spent decades manipulating and controlling every inch of her life—had left a strange, hollow ache. It should have felt like relief, but the weight of grief came like an unexpected wave, knocking her off balance.

Julia, her younger sister, stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her. Her arms were folded across her chest, her face lined with exhaustion. They hadn't spoken much since their mothers death, not beyond the necessary details. But now, there was something pressing between them—something that needed to be said.

"Camila.." Julia finally spoke, her voice quiet, but firm. "We need to start making arrangements. The funeral... we can't put it off."

Camila nodded slowly, her eyes lingering on the untouched coffee. "I know. I just—" She broke off, trying to find the right words. "It doesn't feel real. I can't believe she's really gone."

Julia stepped forward, sitting down beside her sister. She reached for Camila's hand, squeezing it gently. "You don't have to do this alone. We'll get through it, okay? Just... we need to start making decisions. What would she want?"

Camila's lips tightened. Her mother, manipulative and controlling even in death, had already made plans, no doubt. She had always had a way of getting her way, even in matters of life and death. Camila wasn't sure if she could stomach following through on any of it.

"We'll make it ours." Camila finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We'll do it the way we think is best. But I can't promise that it'll be easy."

Julia didn't argue. She simply nodded, her gaze softening with understanding. It was going to be a hard road ahead, but they would walk it together. Somehow, they always had.

Upstairs, Harriet stood in front of her bedroom mirror, still wrapped in her robe, a curling iron idle on the desk beside her. Her eyes were rimmed in a faint pink, the evidence of a morning spent in silence. She had cried without sound, letting the tears fall like a silent confession. Not for long. Just enough.

She had told no one.

Not about the appointment. Not about the pain. Not about the flicker of something—hope, maybe? fear?—she'd felt when the nurse handed her a pamphlet and asked if she was sure. She had been. Still was. And yet, every so often, the weight of what could have been pressed against her chest like a phantom limb.

Harriet touched her stomach absently. Flat. Normal. Like nothing had ever happened.

She whispered, "I'm sorry." into the stillness of the room, unsure if she was speaking to herself or the ghost of the life that never came to be.

Then, like a switch being flicked, she shook herself free. It was prom night. She had a dress waiting in the closet and friends expecting photos, and her grandmother was dead, and her sister was in a hospital, and everything was fractured. But tonight could be simple. Just for a few hours, she could pretend.

She grabbed her phone and dialled.

"Finola?" Her voice was surprisingly steady.

"Hey, babe! You ready to become the moment tonight?" Finola's voice was bright, familiar, grounding.

Harriet let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Come over? I don't want to get ready alone."

Finola didn't ask why. "On my way."

—

An hour later, the bedroom smelled like hairspray and perfume, the window cracked open to fight off the cloud of cosmetics hanging in the air. Harriet sat cross-legged on the floor while Finola wrestled with the zipper on her dress.

"I swear if this thing doesn't zip, I'm wearing a bedsheet to prom.." Harriet joked, forcing a smile.

"You'll look like an expensive Greek goddess. Honestly, might be a serve." Finola tugged the zipper up triumphantly. "There. You're officially a vision."

Harriet looked at herself in the mirror again. The navy-blue gown finally hugged her figure like it had been made for her. Her makeup was light, understated, her eyes lined with a thin shimmer of gold. Her hair was pulled into a soft updo, strands falling in loose curls around her face.

She didn't look like someone grieving. Or someone carrying guilt. Or someone who had sat alone in a sterile room while her world quietly changed.

She looked... okay.

"Thank you." she murmured.

Finola smiled at her in the reflection. "You don't have to thank me, Har. I know things are—hard. With everything."

Harriet's eyes flicked to her best friend's, but she didn't say anything. She wasn't ready to talk about the abortion. Or her grandmother's murder. Or the way guilt curled inside her like ivy. She just needed one night of stillness in the chaos.

"Let's just have fun tonight. Okay?" Harriet said, turning to face her friend with a real, if small, smile. "No talk about hospitals, or... cemeteries, or stupid boys, or trauma. Just glitter and dancing and pretending everything's normal."

Finola took her hand, squeezing it. "Done! Tonight we are distractingly hot and emotionally unavailable. Prom royalty vibes only."