My step-mom died. Hard on my Dad and others of the family.
I was older and moved away, I had kids of my own by the time they had met and married.
She didn’t mother me but she did try to guide me. I had considered her a friend.
I was wrong.
The funeral was nice on the outside, the family dynamic of two families mixed but very separate made for tension on some levels.
Other family feuds and squabbles made for interesting play time among the mourners.
I like a good funeral. And lets face it I do have all the trimmings. This was anything but a good funeral.
To the casual observer it was a nice affair as these thing go. But the knives were out and after blood behind the scenes. They cut into each other with gusto. No one was spared.
I avoided some drama by being a ‘vanilla normal’ but still got shafted in the end by contrived accusations.
Family can leave the nastiest scars on ones heart and soul.
What happened to these people I called family? They grew bitter and abusive while I was loving them from afar. I called and asked after them and their children. I sent them pertinent news over the years. I offered help when I could and gave it even when I couldn’t afford to. I may not play well with others but I do try to be helpful whenever I can.
I walked into a room full of strangers who, I learned, didn’t want me there even thou they were the ones who asked me to come. I was bated by smiling faces to a knife fight and all I had was flowers in my hands and love in my heart.
I went and I did my duty to the end as a daughter. I left as an orphan.
I went a sister of five siblings and step-sister of two. I returned as an only child.
I don’t even care to try to clear up the mountian of misunderstandings at this point. Years of he said, she said behind my back has built up to an insurmountable degree.
I wasn’t there at the time and became the ‘odd man out’ scapegoat somewhere along the line.
My step-mom is burried along with most all of my family relationships far away in the place I grew up but is no longer home.
But now I am back at my own home and safe from their hatred. Cat on my lap, dog at my feet, husband at my side, knitting in my hands, and bandages on my heart.
Another chapter of my life is over. The scars will heal. I will survive.
And not to worry they are not invited to my funeral so they will not be a bother to anyone else who plans to attend when the time comes.