The Unwelcomed Plus-One

*this is an exercise one of my professors had us do in my English class.

I can’t believe she actually had the audacity to show up to my sister’s funeral.

Even worse, her boyfriend (aka my brother-in-law), let her come. He invited her. To be honest, if he dies in a few months from a sudden heart attack, I won’t feel grief, not even after all the Christmases we’ve spent joking around with each other; I’ll feel like the karma is necessary. And it won’t make me cruel. Get this. Everyone looks at me like I’m a killer until I reveal the next bit of information. It’s the most important information. People say one wrong act can’t define a person for the person they truly are, but this is an exception:

He invited her to his own wife’s funeral, to the woman he cheated on her with for who knows how many years.

I’m with my mom, my last living sister, and my three kids, and we’re all sitting at the kitchen table. We’ve changed into clothes that aren’t black. I personally have chosen red because I felt it was appropriate with how today’s events have gone.

I’m supposed to feel sadness right now, but the rage that’s making me want to punch a wall is a lovely distraction from my underlying feelings. I’m tempted to walk right over to my brother-in-law’s house and pick a fight with him. I don’t care that he’s a huge tattooed man with little weakness. Coming back bruised and bloody would be worth it. He deserves it. I don’t care what my niece (his daughter) thinks of me after. She should hate her dad too for what he’s done to her mom.

“That’s what I don’t get. His own daughter, who took care of her mom her whole freaking life, she’s still on her dad’s side. Now that’s just messed up!” I say to my mom. I figure she’s the one who can relate to my feelings the most, but while I’m talking to her, my words float around the table for anyone to answer.

My mom’s grey bun is undone, and for once I can picture her same moles on myself one day. “She’s in denial. She lost her mom and her dad is the second closest person to her. It makes sense.”

“Ugh, it doesn’t mean it’s right!” The kitchen counter behind us is full of unopened chip bags. The table we’re sitting at is squeaky clean. My kids are all quiet, their lips zipped shut, but I can tell they’re still listening, yelling in their heads in the same manner I’m yelling out loud. “She had MS. She couldn’t move at all. She was in a wheelchair her whole life. The family’s talking, and I hate to say this, but they’re getting the detectives involved. They’re saying He had something to do with it. She always knew he was cheating, but he probably put the pills a little close so they were in her reach and basically told her to kill herself.”

The words “kill herself” bounce back at me, and I realize I’m not fully feeling the heavy weight of what I’m saying exactly. I figure late at night I’ll feel it, tossing and turning. I couldn’t have done anything to save her. Marriage put her in danger. How messed up is that. “I’ll love you in sickness and in health” is a complete load of crap.

“I know,” my sister replies to me, raising her voice, “I can’t believe he could bring his freaking girlfriend to the funeral. What a bitch. Who does that?”

Sometimes you don’t need to meet people to know how truly evil they are. Actions are enough. “She went in there and watched us all cry.” I pause. “But she’s happy. Now she has him all to herself. I feel like we’re in a freaking drama right now.”

“I should’ve confronted her,” my sister chimes in. And we all agree, even my kids, two of which are too young to fully understand what death is yet.

My ex-brother-in-law is dead to me.