“I need help with the funeral arrangements. I can’t do this alone again,” I said.
“Well, that’s going to be a problem. We can’t help you with that, and we won’t be able to attend the funeral either,” she said.
I thought I’d misheard her. “What?”
“Tomorrow, we’re flying to Mexico with Vanessa and Kevin for a family vacation. We’ve had this planned for months,” she said.
“Mom, my son just died. Your grandson just died. Surely you can reschedule a vacation,” I said.
“Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how much money we spent on this trip? Eight thousand dollars. The vouchers can’t be rescheduled, or we’ll lose everything,” she said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re choosing a vacation over Alex’s funeral?”
“Rachel, you’re a strong woman. You’ll cope with this on your own, just like you did with Sean’s funeral. You don’t really need us there,” she said, and then she hung up.
I sat there, staring at the phone, feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. Before I could even process what had just happened, my phone rang again. It was Vanessa.
“Rachel, Mom just called me. Look, I’m really sorry about Alex, but there’s no way we’re canceling this trip,” she said. She didn’t sound sorry at all—she sounded annoyed.
“Vanessa, it’s Alex’s funeral. He’s your nephew,” I said.
“His death is your problem, not mine,” she shouted. “I’m pregnant now, okay? This might be my last chance to relax and have fun before the baby comes. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months, and I’m not giving it up because your son died.”
I was so shocked by her cruelty that I couldn’t speak.
“You have no right to expect us to cancel our vacation. We already paid for everything, and I need this break, so deal with your own problems and leave us alone,” she said, and she hung up too.
I sat in my living room in complete silence. In the span of 10 minutes, my family had made it clear that a vacation was more important to them than my dead child. But something happened in that moment of absolute abandonment. For the first time since Sean’s accident, my mind was completely clear. I knew exactly what I had to do. First, I would bury my son. Then, I would deal with my family.
I called my friend Susan, and she came over immediately. Together, we planned Alex’s funeral. Just like with Sean, I made all the decisions myself, but this time, I wasn’t expecting my family to show up. Alex’s funeral was held on a Thursday morning. It was a small service: me, Susan, a few of Sean’s co-workers who remembered Alex, and Mrs. Davis, Alex’s teacher, who had driven an hour to be there. The pastor spoke about how Alex was reunited with his father in heaven, and I tried to find comfort in that thought. I didn’t cry during the service—I’d done all my crying at home. Instead, I felt a strange sense of calm, like I was watching everything happen to someone else. When they lowered Alex’s small casket into the ground next to Sean’s grave, I stood there, thinking about how my entire family was on a beach in Mexico while I buried my child.
After the funeral, I went straight to work. I had things to do, and I needed to do them by myself. The first thing I did was drive to Sean’s apartment, where Vanessa and Kevin lived. I had a key—of course I did; it was my apartment. I let myself in and started packing their belongings methodically: clothes, books, kitchen stuff, that ugly lamp Kevin’s mother had given them. I packed it all into boxes and garbage bags, working quietly and efficiently. It took me three hours to pack up their entire life. While I worked, I thought about how they were probably sipping drinks by the pool right now, posting photos on social media, having the time of their lives while I was alone at my son’s funeral.
I called a moving company and paid them extra to come out the same day. I had them take everything to my parents’ house, but instead of being neat about it, I had the movers dump everything in a pile in their living room—boxes, bags, loose items, all of it just thrown together in the middle of their carpet. Then I called a locksmith and had all the locks changed on the apartment: new deadbolt, new doorknob, new everything. Vanessa and Kevin’s keys wouldn’t work anymore.
Next, I went home and opened my laptop. I logged into my bank account and started canceling automatic payments. I’d been paying for so many things for my family over the years that I’d almost forgotten about some of them. My parents’ car insurance? Canceled. Their health insurance supplement? Canceled. The subscription to Dad’s woodworking magazine? Canceled. Mom’s Netflix account that she could never figure out how to pay for herself? Canceled. The monthly payment I made to their credit card to help with groceries? Canceled. Vanessa’s phone bill? Canceled. Her car payment that I’d been helping with since she got married? Canceled. The gym membership I bought her as a wedding gift? Canceled.
As I went through each cancellation, I remembered why I’d started paying for these things in the first place. The car insurance was when Dad retired and money got tight. The phone bill was when Vanessa couldn’t find a job after college. The car payment was a wedding gift because I wanted to help them start their marriage debt-free. I’d been so generous with my family, so eager to help whenever they needed money. I’d paid for Vanessa’s entire wedding—$23,000—because I wanted her to have the perfect day. When Mom needed new glasses last year, I bought them. When Dad’s truck needed repairs, I covered it. Looking at all those canceled payments, I realized I’d been giving my family about $3,000 a month, every month, for four years.
While I was doing this, my phone buzzed with notifications. Vanessa was posting photos from Mexico on Instagram and Facebook: her and Kevin on the beach, looking tanned and happy; my parents at a beachside restaurant, smiling and raising their drinks in a toast. Vanessa had captioned one photo, “So grateful to be here with my amazing family who supports me in everything.” I screenshot every photo, every caption. I wanted to remember this moment, this feeling of absolute clarity about who these people really were.
Three days passed. I went to work, came home, made dinner for one, and waited. I knew they’d be back from Mexico soon, and I was actually looking forward to their return. On Sunday evening, my phone started ringing: first my parents, then Vanessa, then Kevin, then my parents again. I didn’t answer any of the calls. I was sitting in my living room, sorting through Alex’s belongings to donate to charity, and I let the phone ring and ring. The voicemails started after about an hour of unanswered calls.
Mom’s voice, tight with anger: “Rachel, what did you do to Vanessa’s apartment? Why are all their things here? Call me back right now.”
I deleted all the voicemails without listening to them completely, then I blocked all their numbers. But they didn’t give up. Around 10 o’clock, I heard cars pulling into my driveway, then loud knocking on my front door.
“Rachel, open this door right now!” Vanessa was shouting.
I looked out the window and saw all four of them standing on my porch. They looked angry, confused, and tired from their flight. Vanessa was pounding on the door with her fist. I took a deep breath and walked to the door. This conversation was going to happen whether I wanted it or not, and I was ready for it. I opened the door and looked at their faces. Vanessa’s was red with anger, Kevin looked embarrassed, and my parents looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“We need to talk,” Mom said, pushing past me into my house.
They all followed her into my living room and stood there, looking at me like I’d committed some terrible crime.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Vanessa demanded. “Our stuff is thrown all over Mom and Dad’s house like garbage, and we can’t get into our apartment!”
I looked at her calmly. “It’s not your apartment anymore. I changed the locks. You’re evicted.”
Vanessa’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t evict us! We have rights!”
“Actually, I can. It’s my apartment. I inherited it when Sean died. I’ve been letting you live there rent-free as a favor, but that favor is over,” I said.
Vanessa stepped forward aggressively. “Look, I get that you’re upset about Alex, okay? But that doesn’t give you the right to destroy our lives. We have nowhere to go!”
“You should have thought about that before you told me his death was my problem and not yours,” I said.
The silence in my living room was deafening. Vanessa looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor. She knew exactly what she’d said to me, and she knew I remembered every word.
“I was upset,” Vanessa said weakly. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“You told me my son’s death was my problem, not yours. You said you needed to relax before your baby came, so Alex’s funeral wasn’t important enough to cancel your vacation for,” I said.
Mom stepped forward. “Rachel, you’re taking this too far. We understand you’re upset, but this isn’t how family treats each other.”
I almost laughed. “Family? You think we’re family?”
“Of course we’re family,” Dad said. “We’ve had our problems, but we can work through this.”