A Chance to Breathe

Chapter VII

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across my room. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the simple black dress Mary Margaret had lent me. It felt strange wearing something of hers—so different from my own clothes—but today was a day of unfamiliar territory.

I hadn't gone to school, knowing I needed the time to prepare myself mentally for the funeral. The word itself felt heavy, final. I brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, taking a deep breath as I tried to steady the swirling emotions inside me.

A soft knock sounded at my door. "Emma, can I come in?" Mary Margaret's voice was gentle.

"Yeah," I replied, turning to see her enter. She was dressed in a dark skirt and blouse, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and sympathy.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping closer.

"I'm okay," I said automatically, then hesitated. "Actually, I was thinking... maybe it would be better if you stayed here with Neal."

She looked surprised. "I thought you might want us there with you—for support."

I appreciated her willingness, but the idea of bringing Neal to the funeral unsettled me. "I just don't think it's necessary for him to be there," I explained. "He won't remember any of it, and there's no need to take him out in the cold. Besides, his history... it won't really include her."

Mary Margaret's eyes softened. "I understand, but I also want to be there for you."

I glanced down, fiddling with the hem of my dress. "I know, and I appreciate it. But maybe it would be best if only David came with me instead."

As if on cue, David appeared in the doorway, adjusting his tie. His gaze moved between us, sensing the unspoken tension. "Everything alright?"

I met his eyes, silently conveying my request. He seemed to understand immediately.

"Mary, perhaps you could stay here with Neal," he suggested gently. "I'll go with Emma."

She looked between us, then gave a small nod. "If that's what you want," she said to me.

"It is," I affirmed.

She stepped forward and wrapped me in a brief, warm hug. "If you need anything, call me. I'll be here."

"Thank you," I whispered.

The funeral home was modest, a small chapel with simple décor. As David and I entered, a few familiar faces from my old life turned to look. Their expressions ranged from pity to awkward sympathy. I braced myself, steeling against the surge of memories.

One by one, people approached me, offering condolences that felt hollow but were perhaps the best they could manage. "I'm sorry for your loss," an old neighbor said softly. "Your mother was... she had a bright spirit."

"Thank you," I replied politely, unsure of how else to respond.

A former teacher from middle school approached next. "Emma, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."

"I appreciate that," I said, offering a faint smile.

As the small crowd settled into their seats, I took a deep breath and made my way to the front of the room. A simple wooden podium stood there, and I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I approached it.

"I want to thank you all for coming," I began, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. "I know that my mother... that she had her struggles. But I'd like to share a memory that I hold dear."

I paused, recalling the vivid image from my conversation with Regina. "When I was little, my mom used to put on her favorite vinyl records. She'd sing at the top of her lungs, dancing around the living room. She'd laugh and say, 'I'm going to Vegas, baby! Mommy's going to be a superstar!'"