For the next two days, we did not speak Colin’s name.
We talked about Chicago. Her childhood. Her students. The boy who hated reading until she gave him adventure books. The little girl who brought her a drawing every Friday. The classroom hamster that escaped twice in one week.
We looked through the old glitter album.
She laughed once when she saw a crooked paper heart.
It was small.
It was everything.
On the third afternoon, pale sunlight moved across the room. Lily opened her eyes and looked directly at me.
“I love you, Mom.”
I held her hand between both of mine.
“Always, baby.”
She took one more breath.
Then she was gone.
I stayed beside her for hours.
I held her hand as the room grew quiet and thought of every version of her I had loved.
The child in rain boots.
The teenager with glitter glue on her fingers.
The teacher who bought snacks for students who came to school hungry.
The woman who deserved better than a man who saw her suffering as an expense.
I could not save her from cancer.
But I could still save her name from him.
Part 6: The Woman at the Funeral
The funeral took place four days later in Juneau.
The church was full.
Teachers came. Parents came. Former students came with flowers, drawings, letters, and trembling voices.
Colin did not attend.
But Marissa did.
She stood alone at the back, dressed in plain black. She looked nothing like the glossy woman in the Bahamas photo. Her face was pale. Her eyes were swollen.
After the service, she approached me.
“Mrs. Brooks,” she said, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”
