Tyler, twelve.
Ava, nine.
Mom adored Vanessa.
She used to say Vanessa was the best decision Greg ever made.
I liked her too, although we were never especially close.
I lived far enough away that most of our time together happened at holidays, birthdays, and family dinners.
But over the last couple of years, Vanessa had changed.
She became quieter.
At Thanksgiving the previous year, she barely spoke.
She looked exhausted.
Too thin.
When Greg made jokes, she stared at her plate.
Later, while Mom and I washed dishes, I asked,
“Is Vanessa okay?”
Mom scrubbed a roasting pan without answering.
Finally, she said,
“She has a lot going on.”
“What kind of things?”
Mom dried her hands and looked at me.
“Not my story to tell.”
That was all she would say.
Mom’s funeral took place on Tuesday at St. Mary’s.
She had attended Mass there for more than fifty years.
