I anticipated my father’s funeral to be a quiet moment of reflection, a time to honor the man who had been the foundation of our family. What I didn’t expect was my stepmother turning it into a spectacle—until a letter from my father revealed truths that left her and her children humiliated.
The day of the funeral was one of the hardest I’d ever faced. Despite knowing it was coming—my father had been ill for some time—nothing prepared me for the finality of it. I fought back tears, bracing myself to say goodbye to the man who had always been my support.
Then Vivian arrived.
My stepmother entered the church with an air of arrogance, her four adult children following her in matching, all-white outfits. They looked like they were attending a celebration, not a funeral. The contrast between their attire and the rest of us in somber black was striking, drawing curious glances from the crowd.
I felt anger rising within me. This was my father’s funeral, not her moment to shine. I pushed through the crowd, momentarily forgetting my grief as I confronted her. “Vivian,” I said sharply, my voice low but filled with fury. “Why are you and your children dressed like this?”
She smiled condescendingly. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t make a scene. This is what your father wanted.”
I stared at her, stunned. “Dad wanted this?” I motioned at her extravagant white dress and her children’s attire. “There’s no way he—”
She cut me off, pulling out an envelope from her designer bag. “He wrote me a letter,” she said, waving it in front of me. “He specifically asked us to wear white. It was his last wish.”
I shook my head. “No. My dad would never—”
“Believe what you want,” she said, slipping the letter back into her bag. “We’re honoring his wishes.” Without waiting for a response, she led her children to the front row, seating themselves like royalty.
As the ceremony began, Vivian’s family soaked up the attention, their white outfits standing out against the sea of black. I tried to focus on the eulogies, but frustration bubbled up inside me.
Then, my father’s best friend, Joe, stepped forward. He held up a letter. “Vivian,” he said, his voice steady, “please stand.”
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