Page 79 of Run Omega Run
The kitchen had grown still around us, late afternoon sunlight slanting through windows in ways that painted our funeral preparations in gold and shadow. Upstairs somewhere, I could hear the lost girls laughing at something Emma had said, their voices carrying an easy joy that would have made Mom smile with satisfaction. She'd spent her entire adult life creating spaces where healing could happen, where traumatized children could rediscover their capacity for happiness.
"She'd be proud of what you've built here," Susie said softly, as if reading my thoughts. "All these kids having an actual family, being safe and loved and fed properly. This is what she always wanted for everyone."
Her words carried validation I hadn't realized I needed, confirmation that the choices I'd made since losing her were consistent with the values she'd tried to instill. The mansion full of children, the pack who'd embraced our entire chaotic family, the abundance that ensured no one would ever again go hungry or cold... it was everything she'd dreamed of being able to provide but had never had the resources to achieve.
"The ceremony should be tomorrow," I decided, setting down my pen after completing the last card. "In the garden behind the house, where she can see all the children she helped save."
Susie nodded with solemn agreement, understanding that grief had its own timeline that couldn't be rushed or delayed beyond what the heart could bear. "I'll help set everything up," she promised. "Make sure everything is perfect for her."
Looking at the completed funeral preparations spread across our kitchen table—lavender bundles tied with purple ribbon, smooth river stones arranged in protective circles, handwritten cards that captured a lifetime of love—I felt something shift inmy chest. Not the disappearance of grief, but its transformation into something that could coexist with gratitude and hope.
Mom would have her proper funeral, surrounded by the family she'd helped create, honored according to traditions that celebrated her life rather than merely mourning her death.
It was time to let her go with all the love and ceremony she deserved.
Chapter 35
Heather
The garden behind our mansion had been transformed into something that felt both sacred and intimate, afternoon sunlight filtering through ancient oak branches to create patterns of light and shadow across thoughtfully arranged funeral elements. Chairs formed a semicircle around a simple stone altar that Bennett had constructed from materials he'd found on the property, its rough surface providing a natural beauty that Mom would have preferred over elaborate ceremonial furniture.
Her urn rested at the altar's center, surrounded by the lavender sachets and salt crystals we'd prepared with such careful attention. The purple ribbon caught sunlight in ways that made the color seem more vivid than mere fabric should achieve, as if Mom's favorite hue had been intensified by the love that had gone into every ceremonial detail. River stones formed protective circles around the base, each one placed with deliberate precision to create a sacred space worthy of the passage we were marking.
The scent of lavender mixed with the early afternoon air, created an atmosphere that felt both peaceful and purposeful. Birds continued their afternoon conversations in overhead branches, their songs providing natural music that no humanceremony could improve upon. Everything about the setting spoke of life continuing, seasons changing, growth persisting even in the presence of loss and grief.
Our family gathered in respectful peace that characterized children who understood the gravity of ritual with no need for detailed explanation. The lost girls sat together, their improved health evident in their clear eyes and stronger postures, but their expressions solemn as they prepared to honor someone they'd never met, but whose influence had shaped the woman who'd claimed them as daughters. Their presence felt like validation of everything Mom had believed about love extending beyond blood relations, about families being built from choice and commitment rather than biological accident.
The orphanage children arranged themselves according to age and relationship, with Loubie Lou on my lap, her precious bunny clutched closely. Tomas had positioned himself where he could see everything while maintaining the security of his blanket, his selective mutism briefly suspended by the formal nature of the occasion. Dylan and Denson flanked the younger children, their protective instincts expressed through gentle guidance that ensured everyone understood how to take part respectfully.
Susie sat beside me, her wild red hair gleaming in the dappled sunlight, her lemon scent carrying undertones of support that helped steady my own emotional equilibrium. Her presence provided a particular comfort that came from shared history, from someone who'd experienced Mom's love personally rather than learning about it through secondhand stories.
My pack arranged themselves at the ceremony's edges, their protective presence unobtrusive but unmistakable. Bennett's peppermint scent carried the controlled precision that had characterized his personality. Dante's marshmallow sweetnesshad gentled to something that spoke of reverence for traditions he didn't entirely understand. Angus's chocolate presence provided steady warmth that enveloped our entire group like a blanket, while Cole's toffee scent carried the particular stillness he brought to all encounters with death and passage.
I stood, feeling the heartache behind the words. Words that needed to capture a lifetime of love and sacrifice in the brief span that the ceremony allowed.
"We gather today to honor my Mom," I began, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat that made speaking difficult. "Some of you called her Mom, some knew her as the lady who read bedtime stories and made scraped knees feel better with gentle hands and patient love. All of you were touched by her belief that every child deserves a family, deserves protection, deserves to know they matter in this world."
The words felt inadequate when measured against the magnitude of what I was trying to express, but I could see understanding in the faces turned toward me. These children knew what it meant to be claimed by someone who had no obligation to love them, who saw potential where others saw problems or burdens.
"She took in every lost child, every forgotten soul who appeared at our door," I continued, my voice gaining strength as memory provided examples that illustrated her character more effectively than abstract praise. "She taught me that family isn't about blood; it's about love. It's about choosing to care for someone not because you have to, but because their wellbeing matters to you more than your own comfort."
Loubie Lou stirred in my lap, her small hand reaching toward the urn as if she could touch the woman who'd sung her lullabies during the earliest days at the orphanage. "Where’s Mama?" she asked, her question carrying the particular confusion thatcame from trying to understand adult concepts of death and permanence with a young child's concrete thinking.
"Mama is with the angels now," I explained gently, using the same words that had comforted her during our earlier conversations about loss and absence. "She's watching over all of us, making sure we're safe and loved and growing into the people she always believed we could be."
