Chapter 15: Buried Grief

Omniscient POV

“Ah, man... I’m beat.” Joseph tossed his backpack onto the living room sofa, the thud echoing in the quiet house. He unknotted his tie with a weary sigh, the exhaustion of the first day of senior year written across his face.

“Damn. Since when did school get so boring? I wasn't expecting senior year to be this dry,” he added, collapsing into the cushions.

Trish followed him in, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “That’s because your mindset has changed, Joseph. You’re no longer trying to get wild to maintain your status. You’re no longer trying to be the ‘King of Mthland High.’”

“Who’s trying to be the King of Mthland High?”

A familiar, sharp voice caused both of them to jump. Miss Britney was descending the stairs, her eyes narrowing as she fixed them on her son. “Joseph, tell

me you’re not thinking of something stupid again. Please tell me you aren't slipping back into those habits.”

“No, no! That’s not what we meant, Miss Britney!” Trish interjected quickly, casting a panicked look at Joseph. Joseph’s eyes widened, silently cursing his own slip of the tongue.

“I’m glad you’re staying in at night now,” Miss Britney continued, her frown deepening as she reached the bottom step. “But I haven't forgotten, Joseph. I remember the nights you walked past me smelling like alcohol and cigarettes. You were making me scared. And now I’m hearing about this ‘King’ business again?”

She knew her son carried a beauty that altered rooms; soft at first, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, changing how people behaved.

Her voice trembled slightly. As a single mother who had spent years trying to lead her son away from the toxic path of his father, the fear of him "breaking bad" was a constant weight. She looked at Joseph, who was now standing. He was nearly two feet taller than her, a physical reminder of the man he was becoming, but to her, he was still the boy she needed to save from becoming a playboy, or worse, a ghost.

Joseph stepped forward, his expression softening as he took his mother’s hands. “Mom. I told you, stop worrying. I swear I’m not going out late anymore. I’m done with all that.”

“Are you sure? Because your ‘toxic lifestyle’... it nearly broke me, Joseph,” she whispered.

“I’m sure, Mom. It’s okay now,” he assured her, pulling her into a brief, protective embrace.

As Miss Britney let out a long, shaky breath, she glanced at Trish. She could see the change in the way they stood together, the way they communicated. She knew, deep down, that Trish had played a silent, vital role in bringing her son back to normalcy.

“Anyway, guys! What do you want for dinner?” Miss Britney asked, shaking off the tension and turning toward the kitchen.

“I’m surprised you stayed at school until evening. How was your first day as seniors?”

“The most boring day of my life, Mom,” Joseph groaned, falling back onto the sofa.

“What did you expect, Joseph? Red carpets?” Trish sat beside him, letting out a long sigh of her own as the ache in her legs finally registered.

Miss Britney laughed, her heart warming at the sight of them finally getting along. “I’ll get started on something light. You two look like you’ve been through a war.”

Seeing the exhaustion on Miss Britney’s face, Trish’s conscience pricked her. She stood up, smoothing out her uniform, and followed her "second mother" into the kitchen.

“Hey, Miss Britney, I’m here to help,” Trish smiled. “What are we making? I was hoping for fufu and stew.”

“No fufu tonight, sweetheart. You need something lighter for a school night,” Miss Britney replied. “But we’re still doing the stew. Grab the chopping board.”

Trish moved with professional ease, grabbing the board, a knife, and an onion.

She began to dice the pieces with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that left Miss Britney impressed. For a while, they worked in a comfortable, domestic silence, two women who had found a family in the wake of tragedy.

But as the onions were swept aside, Miss Britney’s countenance changed. She kept glancing at Trish, her eyes welling with a sorrow she had been trying to bury for weeks.

“Trish?”

“Yes, Miss Britney?” Trish responded instantly, sensing the shift in the air.

“I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this. And I don’t think there will ever be a ‘perfect’ time, so... it has to be now.”

Trish stopped her work, her knife resting on the board. She looked at Miss Britney, her cheerful expression slowly fading into a look of wary confusion. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Miss Britney took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she reached out to cover Trish’s. “It’s about your mother, Trish. You know we have to... we have to lay her to rest properly. The funeral is scheduled for this weekend.”

The world stopped. The kitchen, the smell of the stew, the sound of Joseph’s TV in the background, it all vanished. Trish’s eyes went wide, her pupils dilating as the name of her mother, Tiffany, hit her like a physical blow.

“Oh,” Trish muttered, her voice sounding like it was coming from miles away. “Oh. That.”

“Trish, sweetheart—”

“I… I didn’t want to think about it,” Trish’s breathing became ragged, her chest heaving as a panic attack clawed at her throat. “I don't want to go. Facing senior year is already hard enough, I can't manage, and now this? I can't... I can't breathe.”

Miss Britney was at her side in a second, catching her before she could sink to the floor. “Hey, Trish! Look at me. Breathe,

Trish. Pull yourself together.”

She held Trish tightly, letting the girl sob into her shoulder. The sound was guttural, the sound of a daughter finally realizing her mother was never coming back.

“We have to do this, Trish,” Miss Britney whispered into her hair, her own tears falling freely. “We can’t run from it forever.

We have to do this for Tiffany. She was my best friend, and she deserves this.”

Trish pulled back, her face red and wet with tears, her eyes pleading. “Okay. We’ll do it. But... but please, Miss Britney. Not this weekend. Please.”

“Trish, it’s already been so long—”

“Next month!” Trish begged, her voice high and desperate. “The first Friday of next month. Please, just give me that time to prepare. I can't face it yet. Please.”

Miss Britney looked at the sheer agony in Trish’s eyes and felt her resolve crumble.

She knew the importance of closure, but she also knew the fragility of the girl in her arms.

“Okay,” Miss Britney sighed, wiping Trish’s cheeks with her thumb. “Okay, sweetheart.

Next month. The first Friday.”

Trish let out a sob of relief, leaning back into the hug.

“Now, wipe your tears,” Miss Britney urged, standing them both up. “Let’s get our faces cleaned up before Joseph sees us like this. We have to stay strong for each other, okay?”

Trish nodded, taking Miss Britney’s hand as they stood together in the quiet kitchen, two survivors preparing for the hardest day of their lives.

“Please, I really hate seeing you cry, Trish. Don’t you dare start again,” Miss Britney said, her voice light and coaxing.

“Relax, don't worry! I wasn’t crying. It was the onion I just chopped. Very emotional onion,” Trish said.

Miss Britney laughed. “Of course it was. Those onions have been troublemakers all week. But hey, if you’re cracking jokes again, I’ll take it, okay? Ha ha.”