Page 90 of Letters From Victor

“She’s gone.”

The service was nicely done—all the right readings, songs, and prayers. My brother, Bill, delivered the eulogy. He spoke of acaring and compassionate mother who loved and nurtured and gave the best childhood a boy could ask for.

Maybe my siblings got the lion’s share of her maternal compassion, but by the time I came around, she was all dried up.

The church was packed. All of Los Angeles society turned up to attend Agatha Montgomery’s funeral. Notably absent, however, was Congressman Milton Montgomery—Daddy. The official excuse was his work on the statehood commission in Hawaii. The real reason, murmured in hushed voices between pews, was much less dignified.

After the funeral, I stood in the receiving line with Edith and Bill, mechanically expressing our gratitude to each person who filed past. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “We appreciate your condolences.” The words had become a chant, stripped of meaning through endless repetition.

Usually, Edith was the one to stand out from the crowd—to buck the norm, as it were. But this time, it was my turn. Edith and Bill both stood dressed in traditional, conservative funerary black. I wore a crisp white dress with a wide lapel and a red satin sash about the waist.

The procession dragged on, a parade of solemn faces blurred together, each offering the same rehearsed condolences. These were Mother’s people—social climbers and hangers-on, the lot of them. Their faces were familiar but not friendly. I’d seen them all at various galas and fundraisers throughout the years, offering the same false smiles and whispering the same veiled gossip.

“Thank you for coming,” I said to Mrs. Hargrove, our mother’s oldest friend and the most insincere person I’d ever met. “It means so much to us.”

“The world is a poorer place without Agatha,” she declared, her lips pursed in brittle, well-practiced sorrow. Her gloved hand clamped over mine, squeezing too hard, as if grief could be transferred through sheer pressure. “Be strong, Barbara.”

I nodded, polite but unmoved, resisting the urge to roll my eyes as she moved on to smother Edith.Be strong.As if fragility were my problem.

I glanced sideways at Edith, who dabbed at her damp eyes with a neatly folded handkerchief. She had real tears, real sorrow. I envied her that.

Guilt gnawed at me like a persistent rat. How many daughters had stood where I stood now, gasping for breath beneath the weight of their loss? A bond so deep that its severing should leave me shattered. But I wasn’t shattered. I wasn’t even cracked. I waited for the sorrow to consume me. But all I could muster was a dull, emotional flatline.

Half an hour later, the crowd had thinned enough for me to see the exit. My mind drifted to the glass of wine I’d pour once I got home, to the hot bath that would wash this whole insincere mess away.

The last of the mourners shuffled past, and I allowed myself a brief moment of relief. But then I saw Frank, standing back from the line with his hands in his pockets. My heart skipped—not with joy or dread, but with pure surprise. I hadn’t expected him to come.

He approached slowly, almost cautiously. “Hello, Barbara,” Frank said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of lingering guests. He stood a few paces away, as if unsure of his welcome.

I straightened, my surprise morphing into a guarded curiosity. “Frank.” My voice was polite but edged. “What are you doing here?”

He shifted on his feet, uncharacteristically uncertain. There was no arrogance, no sharp retorts or accusations. Just quiet, unassuming sincerity.

“I always liked your mother,” he said simply. “I wanted to pay my respects.”

The words landed softly. I hesitated, thrown off balance by the unexpected sentiment. “That’s…kind of you.” The response felt inadequate, but it was all I could offer. “Thank you.”

We stood in uneasy silence for a moment. Edith and Bill had slipped away. Frank’s curly blond hair had grown out a bit, less tightly wound than usual, and there was a softness in his eyes that disarmed me.

“How is our son?” Frank asked, breaking the silence. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something deeper in them—concern, perhaps.

“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s down in the church nursery. I thought a funeral would be a bit much for him.”

“I agree,” Frank said. He glanced around, searching for something to anchor his attention, then exhaled slowly and tucked his hands back into his pockets. “Funerals are hard enough on adults.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. The silence between us stretched, taut and fragile. In the past, Frank’s presence had been predictable—sometimes comforting, sometimes suffocating—but now it felt like uncharted territory.

“Barbara,” he started, then hesitated. “I’m sorry about your mother. I know you had a complicated relationship, but…she was still your mother.”

The softness in his eyes made my chest tighten. This new, gentler Frank was unsettling, and I had no idea what to make of it.

“Is there something you want, Frank?” I asked, more sharply than I intended. The tension of the day had frayed my patience, and his newfound tenderness left me unbalanced.

He studied me, and I braced myself for whatever bombshell he might drop. “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “About us. About the future.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air like dense fog. “I’m okay with moving forward now.”

“Moving forward?”

“With the divorce,” he clarified. “If that’s still what you want.”

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