While I Buried My Grandmother, He Chased His Mistress

The funeral home had a catalog. Mahogany, oak, cherry. I chose mahogany because Eleanor had a mahogany desk in her study. The same desk where she'd signed the recommendation letter that got Alexander his first real interview. She'd never told him that. I'd found the carbon copy in her files when I was sixteen.

I made the arrangements on Tuesday. Viewing on Thursday, burial on Friday. I called her colleagues from the firm. Her attorney. The three remaining friends from her bridge club. I wrote the obituary myself on my laptop at 2 AM, then rewrote it because the first version made me cry too hard to see the screen.

Alexander called Wednesday afternoon.

"I heard," he said. "I'm so sorry, babe. Work's been absolutely crazy, but I'll be there. Friday, right?"

Babe. He hadn't called me that in six months.

"Thursday viewing is at four," I said. "Friday burial is at ten."

"I'll do my best." His voice had that distracted quality, like he was reading something while we spoke. "The Morrison account is killing me, but I'll make it work."

He showed up Friday at 10:47 AM. I was standing beside the grave with Eleanor's attorney when I saw him walking across the grass, dress shoes picking their way around headstones. He carried a bouquet—generic supermarket roses still wrapped in plastic.

He kissed my cheek. "Traffic was insane. I'm sorry."

Eleanor's attorney shook his hand. Alexander made appropriate somber faces during the brief service. He stood beside me with his hands folded. When it was over, he followed me to the reception at Eleanor's country club, the one she'd been a member of for forty years.

We sat at a table near the window. Finger sandwiches and coffee in good china. Alexander checked his phone under the table twice in the first fifteen minutes. The second time, his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile before he caught himself.

Mrs. Chen from Eleanor's bridge club stopped by our table. She squeezed my shoulder. "Your grandmother was so proud of you, dear."

"Thank you," I said.

Mrs. Chen glanced at Alexander. "And you must be the young man Eleanor spoke so fondly of."

Alexander smiled his work smile. "I hope I lived up to it."

Mrs. Chen nodded politely and moved on. Alexander's phone buzzed. He glanced down, then stood.

"I have to handle something," he said. "Work thing. You understand."

I looked up at him. His tie was slightly crooked. There was a small stain on his collar I hadn't noticed before—something pale, like frosting.

"Now?"

"It'll be quick." He was already stepping back from the table. "I'll call you tonight. We'll talk properly then. I promise."

He left before I could answer.

I sat there with my coffee going cold. Eleanor's colleagues came by in small clusters, sharing memories. Mr. Parsons from the firm told a story about Eleanor negotiating a merger in 1987 that saved forty jobs. I smiled. I nodded. I thanked everyone for coming.

Lauren, a woman I vaguely recognized from Alexander's office, approached near the end. She'd been at the disastrous anniversary party—I remembered her looking away when Alexander gave Karina the ring.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said. Then, hesitantly, "I saw Alexander leave. Is everything okay?"

"Work emergency," I said automatically.

Something flickered across her face. "Oh. That's... I thought maybe..." She stopped. Looked down at her plate. "I saw Karina's Instagram story the other day. They were at that arcade in Chelsea. You know, the one with the claw machines? She posted like fifteen videos of him winning her stuffed animals."

The room got very quiet in my head.

"When was this?" My voice sounded normal. I don't know how.

"Um." Lauren's eyes went wide. "Thursday night? Maybe Friday morning? The posts were timestamped around 1 AM, I think. I just assumed—I mean, I didn't realize—"

"It's fine," I said. "Thank you for telling me."

She left quickly after that.

I sat at the table for another ten minutes. The reception was winding down. Caterers were clearing plates. Mrs. Chen waved goodbye from across the room.

I went to the bathroom. Stood at the sink. Looked at myself in the mirror. Same face. Same navy dress—different from the anniversary one, but the same careful neckline. Same woman who'd made all the calls and picked the mahogany casket and written the obituary.

The same woman whose boyfriend had been at a Chelsea arcade winning stuffed animals for another woman while her grandmother died asking for him.

I turned on the faucet. Let the water run cold. Pressed my wet hands against the back of my neck.

When I got home that evening, I didn't call Alexander. I opened my laptop instead. My company's internal portal. The London office transfer application page I'd bookmarked weeks ago.

I read through the requirements. The timeline. The salary adjustment. The housing stipend.

I didn't fill it out. Not yet. But I read every word.

Then I opened a new browser tab and searched for the jewelry shop's website. They had an online store. I added three gold beads to my cart. Checked out. Paid for expedited shipping.

499. 500. 501.

The confirmation email arrived in my inbox thirty seconds later. I stared at the numbers.

Eight years. Five hundred and one small acts of cruelty, coldness, or neglect—each one significant enough that I'd marked it, privately, in gold.

I closed the laptop. Sat in the dark apartment. Eleanor's apartment, really—she'd paid the down payment, though Alexander never acknowledged that. Never thanked her. Never even seemed to notice.

My phone buzzed. Alexander's name lit up the screen.

*Sorry had to run. Dinner tomorrow? I'll make it up to you. Promise.*

I looked at the message for a long time.

Then I turned off my phone and went to bed.