After My Death, Mom Destroyed the Family

The fire that had consumed my body brought everyone in the village together. It did not take long for them to find my body. When they discovered my remains, they had become charred, blackened and shriveled.  

Seeing my pitiful state after death, a few of the aunties from neighboring homes, who had watched me grow up, couldn't bear it. Tears welled up in their eyes.

“What a shame. She is such a good girl and now she's just gone.”  

“I heard she worked as a mortician in the city. Honestly, it's no wonder something bad happened. People who deal with dead people all the time will take the dead people's bad luck.”        

…                   

The crowd buzzed with whispers, many of them filled with disdain for the work I had chosen.           

My parents clearly heard the murmurs. Their faces darkened with anger and shame.     

My father spat on the ground, then turned to my mother and complained to her, “What a cursed girl, even in death she brings shame to us.”

At that moment, Aunt Wanda couldn’t stand it any longer. As she wiped away her tears, she stepped forward and said, “Andrea is gone now. Let's watch our tongues,” she said. Her voice was trembling with sorrow.         

She then turned to my father, her expression turned softened, but firm. “Mr. Adam Lopez, look at her … she didn’t leave in a dignified way. I’ve heard morticians can do wonders. They can repair bodies damaged by accidents so the deceased can leave this world with dignity. Shouldn’t we do the same for Andrea?”       

Warmth filled my heart when I heard Aunt Wanda’s words.

Throughout the cold, lonely years of my twenty-seven years of life, she was the only one who ever made me feel cared for.  She was more like family than my family ever was.

When my parents bought cotton candy for my sister and brother but forgot to buy it for me, Aunt Wanda handed me the one she bought for her daughter.  

When my sister secretly slandered me and made the other children refuse to play with me, Aunt Wanda invited me to her house to play with her daughter.      

When my brother pushed me and made me suffer some injuries, my parents turned a blind eye, it was Aunt Wanda who took me to her house and tended my wounds.           

I never imagined that, even after I died, she would still be the only one who cared about giving me some dignity.     

However, my father, as if he had just heard a joke, scoffed, “It’s enough if I buy her an urn to put her ashes in. Why would we hire a mortician? Wasn’t she one herself? If she thought she didn’t die with dignity, she can get up and fix herself.”    

His harsh words hung in the air. Aunt Wanda, her face clouded with sadness, said nothing more. She cast one last glance at my body before shaking her head and walking away. 

Only I, who was standing silently behind, could hear her whisper, “Poor girl.…”