How to Bury a Family

I stood in the rain, motionless.

Through the downpour, I watched my fiancée—Sarah Hargrave—smile faintly, her eyes alight with something I no longer recognized.

Benjamin Wheeler leaned in, pressing his lips to hers—not a kiss, but to pass her a heart-shaped locket. She wore an emerald-green gown, the kind reserved for operas or old portraits, something out of a Victorian romance. The locket gleamed between them, catching the glow of the gas lamps.

Sarah’s cheeks flushed as she took it. But before she could open it, Benjamin pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him like he wanted to erase the space between them forever.

The guests—their friends, mostly—cheered, clinking glasses. The kiss that followed lasted nearly ten minutes. I counted.

By the time they parted, Sarah was breathless.

A gust of wind lifted the lace drapes hanging from the garden trellises. Only then, under the flickering lantern light, did I notice my own family and friends among the crowd. Watching. Smiling.

My younger sister, Amy Foster, stood at the center of it all—no longer the girl who once hid behind me but now poised as the officiant. She wore a sleek, modern dress, her gaze fixed on Benjamin with something like reverence.

She had forgotten.

Forgotten how the two of us, brother and sister, had nearly been broken in that "boarding school" Benjamin’s mother sent us to—the one that promised to "correct" troubled teens.

And yet there she was, beaming, raising her glass. "To my brother and his beautiful bride—may your love last a lifetime!"

As her toast ended, the guests lit sparklers, their golden trails cutting through the night.

Benjamin swept Sarah into his arms like she was weightless—the kind of dramatic gesture reserved for fairy tales, not real life.

Amy's excitement reached a fever pitch. "That’s it! Escort the newlyweds to the honeymoon suite!"

The noise around me dulled. A hollow silence filled my ears.

I took out my phone and called Amy.

This was the girl who once swore, through tears, that she’d always stand by me. She glanced at the screen, hesitated, then declined the call.

I didn’t stop. I dialed again—this time, Sarah.

The moment she saw my name, her expression iced over.

She looked ready to ignore it, but Benjamin murmured something, and she rolled her eyes before answering, her voice dripping with annoyance.

"Where are you?" I asked quietly.

Her laugh was sharp and cruel, carrying over the music. "Checking up on me again? We’re married, Daniel. Are you really this starved for love?"

Then, louder—deliberately so the others could hear, "God, you’re desperate. I told you, this trip with Ben is for the university. The newly discovered medieval manuscripts—remember? Or is your jealousy so crippling you can’t tell research from an affair?"

Her words hit like a slap, one after another.

And still, with one last frayed thread of hope, I whispered, "But Sarah… today is my birthday."

Sarah had once promised me—no matter what happened—we'd spend every birthday together. So even if she were across the world, I would still make my way to her.

I took over ten different modes of transportation, hiked five kilometers, and braved the forest to find her.

Until a local finally told me the truth.

There was no archaeological site here—only a professor named Sarah who had been planning a wedding with her lover for the past six months.