Steps to Writing a Musical || Lin-Manuel Miranda

Step Nine: Know When to End It

You didn't have much experience with death. Sure, people in your life had died, but never really anyone you were close to. Distant relatives, sure, but you were either too young to remember them or had no idea who they were to begin with.

This death, though, cut deep. You weren't sure how or why, but you could feel the pain deep in your chest.

You wished there was some kind of medicine to make that feeling go away. Since it didn't exist, you resorted to shutting yourself in, ignoring phone calls, and staying in bed. That was your coping method. Isolation.

Today, however, was your mother's funeral. You had to get up.

You fought the urge to get back in bed by taking a shower. You went through motions, one by one. Hair, makeup, dress, shoes. When you looked in the mirror, you saw someone you didn't recognize. The concealer hid the bags under your eyes well, but you eyes were still burning red. You'd cried more in the last month than in your entire life.

But why? Your mother had never been loving towards you. She never came to your school functions and forced you to participate in events that you hated. She never supported you. She was ultimately never there for you.

So why am I crying so damn much, you thought.

You shook your head and grabbed your purse. When you took out your phone, you noticed a text from your brother.

'Need help. Dad won't cooperate.'

You sighed, your head tilted up and your eyes closed. The last thing you needed was to deal with your father, but you knew you had to. So you picked up your keys and coat, and walked out the door.

When you arrived at your father's house, the door was unlocked. Upon entering, you saw Brandon at the mirror. He was trying to tie his tie (and failing when he saw you.) "He won't budge." He told you.

You walked up to him and laid his tie straight before crossing one side over the other. You tied it easily, tightening it around his neck. "An ex-boyfriend taught me." You mumbled. You cleared your throat as you hung your coat on the rack. "Dad is..."

"Upstairs, master bedroom."

"I'll be back."

You marched up the long flight of stairs, heels clicking against the wood. You knew your father was in pain, but so were you. And so was Brandon. You were all hurting together for whatever the reason. And goddamnit, you were gonna be at that funeral as a family.

When you enter the room, you were surprised to see your father still in bed. There were two cheap beer bottles on the bedside table and third one on the floor. You sighed as you walked across the room to the windows. You slid the curtains open, letting the sunlight in. A groan was emitted from your dad. "Get up, Dad." You said loudly.

"I already told your brother I'm not going."

Grasping the blankets firmly, you yanked them off the bed and threw them on the floor. "What the hell, Y/N?!"

"You're going." You picked out a black suit from the closet, hanging it on the door.

"I'm not."

You stopped, staring at him as he laid down again. "You don't have a choice, Dad. This is your wife's funeral."

"Just go, Y/N."

"No!" You said. "I won't just go. You are not the only one hurting, you know. I'm hurting, Brandon's hurting—"

"Please, you never gave a damn about your mother." He scoffed.

"I spent half my life trying to please her because I loved her so damn much! You both just got upset because I started living for myself, so don't—" You stopped yourself. Deep breath, in and out. "Today isn't about me. Today is about remembering Mom."