How to Bury a Family
NorthburnĀ Ā
Before our wedding, my fiancĆ©e, Sarah Hargraveāa professor of medieval historyāheld a private ceremony in a secluded chapel in the countryside.
But not with me.
Under the glow of candlelight, she cradled Benjamin Wheelerāher first love, his face gaunt from the cancer consuming himāin her arms. Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she murmured, "In the eyes of God, vows made before the altar are the only ones that matter. Even if the law says I belong to Daniel, my soul was never his."
And so, to the faint echo of hymns and the scent of old incense, they drank from the same silver cup, exchanged rings, and stepped together into the dimly lit sacristyātheir makeshift bridal chamber.
I watched. Silent. Motionless. No outbursts, no demands for explanation. Just the quiet dialing of a clinic to undo the vasectomy I'd gotten for our future.
From fifteen to thirty, I had loved Sarah for fifteen long years. But in all that time, there'd never been room for me. That space had always belonged to Benjamin, my stepbrother.
So I let her go.
Afterward, I joined a geological research team bound for the isolation of Antarcticaāa land cut off from the world, quiet and clean.
Before I left, I handed Sarah a divorce agreementā¦and a final gift to mark the end.
I never anticipated that Sarah, who'd always met my devotion with frosty detachment, who'd never once glanced back as I walked away, would look ten years older overnight.