The damp chill of the graveyard seeped through the soles of my shoes, locking my joints in place. I stood at the edge of the yawning earth, the Seattle rain falling in a relentless, icy drizzle that clung to the heavy black wool of my coat. They say grief is a quiet thing, an invisible hollow that carves itself out inside your chest. But as I watched the polished mahogany casket of my father, Arthur Vance, lower into the ground, my grief was drowned out by the grotesque theater playing out beside me.
My stepmother, Patricia, was performing a masterpiece of fake devastation. She clung to a lace handkerchief, her sobs perfectly pitched to carry over the patter of the rain, ensuring the remaining society guests saw the tragedy of the grieving widow. Yet, as the last shovel of dirt hit the casket with a hollow, final thud, the performance abruptly ceased. The weeping stopped. She turned to me, not offering a hand to hold, but invading my personal space.
