The walking stick.

III

"The others are waiting, let us hurry back." The tightness in her chest quickly returned. It was as she had expected dead silence. Everyone had been waiting to see who her mother would return with, so naturally conversations had been staved off when they walked in. Then the staring began.

This room was bigger than she remembered. It had probably been cleared out. Seats had been lined up in neat rows and all of them were taken, its occupants trying and failing to modestly look back at the prodigal daughter. "Ariel, you haven't aged a day. Come sit over here," a voice proffered. It sounded oddly familiar but Ariel had had enough familiarity for one day. "Ariel, I'm right here," It continued but she was already turning to move away. "I think I'll head back upstairs. I don't feel so good," Ariel said to her mother but she countered, "Aren't you going to see him first?" Mother asked as she glared firmly at Ariel who was deep in thought pondering her next move as if she was a pawn on a chess board.

Multiple goosebumps arose as sharp chills drove down her spine as she suddenly remembered the main reason why she was here. What she was trying to avoid all these years. For the fourth time that day Ariel felt the dread cling to her again .She suddenly felt afraid and instantly regretted it.
"Will you come with me? "Ariel asked her mother who was now obviously exhausted. The pain from her hip was taking a toll on her. She had not stood this long for quite some time and it was only a matter of time before her walking stick would also give up on her. She seemed paler too. Her movements were slower. It seemed she was at her limit. Their pace was slow. It almost seemed like a bridal procession, only she was getting handed to the dead. She could look more attentively at the guests. Most of them, she had grown up around and with. She could speak for most of them but the odd one or two were in quite the attendance today. She couldn't help but feel almost a twinge of pride.

Her father was what you would call famous. He was invested in a lot of business opportunities in the area and almost everyone fell over backwards to kiss his ring. Yet even after all that fame and privilege, here he now lay, in an ornate gold plated box and all the money in the world wasn't going to get him out of it.
Maybe he had realized how futile his name and worth were. Perhaps that would help to explain away his need to constantly be in a stupor whenever he was at home. Perhaps he couldn't stand to be a family man. That would explain why he would always find a way to make his fists connect with her mother's face, sometimes ribs and even occasionally her belly, usually with a glass or bottle of some foreign hard liquor in hand. All the money in the world couldn't make him not find a way to take issue with everything her mother did. .