The two girls stood there for a moment, watching me sleep soundly, small smiles of relief on their faces. Suddenly, a voice interrupted them.
"How is she doing?" Monica asked from the hallway, making both girls jump.
"Monica, you scared us!" they exclaimed in unison.
Monica grinned. "Lunch is ready," she announced, her voice cheerful.
Monica, our housekeeper, was a woman in her early thirties probably around thirty one or thirty two. She bore such a striking resemblance to Mom that people often mistook them for sisters. My brothers, in particular, had nicknamed her "Little Mom."
She had been part of our family for as long as I could remember, joining us when I was just a toddler. Back then, I hadn't paid much attention to her, my world revolved entirely around Mom. But now, with Mom gone, I was beginning to realize her worth.
Her relationship with the rest of the family was unique. With Jerry and Jacqueline, it was a mix of love, jokes, teasing, and mutual respect. But her bond with Mark was more complicated, equal parts affection, banter, and occasional arguments, all depending on Mark's ever-changing moods.
"Little Mom, I hope you made my favorite!" Jerry's playful voice rang out from the far end of the hallway. He had just stepped out of his room.
"Of course, I did," Monica replied with a laugh. "How could I disappoint my favorite boy?"
"You mean I'm not your favorite boy anymore?" Mark's voice chimed in from the opposite end of the hallway.
"Ooh Mark…" Monica muttered under her breath, too softly for anyone to hear. Then, louder, she added, "Of course I have two favorite boys!"
Emily's heart warmed as Jerry's voice rang out, but it immediately turned cold when Mark's followed. It wasn't that she hated Mark, she hated his cold personality. His unpredictable mood swings grated on her nerves, making it hard to stand being around him for too long.
As Emily and Jacqueline stepped out of the room, their eyes locked with Jerry's. He shot Emily a playful wink. Blushing, she quickly turned away, trying to hide the satisfied smile spreading across her face.
The three women had barely begun descending the stairs when they were ambushed by the two boys, one approaching from the left and the other from the right. Mark, ignoring everyone else, made a beeline for Monica. Without a word, he wrapped his arm around her head, pulling it firmly into the space between his arm and his torso.
"Mark!" Monica protested, struggling to keep her balance as he dragged her down the stairs. She stumbled, trying desperately not to topple over.
"Mind you, I'm your elder!" she scolded, attempting to wriggle free. "You're supposed to even be calling me 'Mom.'"
Mark responded with a loud, mocking laugh. "Mom? You can barely pass as my aunt, let alone my mom! How could I have a mom who's just eight years older than me? The only title you get is 'Little Mom.' Mom—what a braggart!" Though his tone was playful, the underlying disrespect was hard to miss.
Monica narrowed her eyes at him, her lips curving into a mysterious smile. "Wait. One day, you'll call me 'Aunt.' Or even 'Mom.'"
Mark snorted, his tone dismissive. "Little Mom, forget it. You'll never hear me calling you Mom. But perhaps Aunt that might be someday."
Meanwhile, the rest of the group followed behind, engaged in a lively discussion. Their topic? Mark's behavior. The girls commented on how he treated Monica, his cold personality, and the way his moods swung unpredictably from warm to frigid.
By the time Mark reached the dining area, he finally released Monica. She straightened up, fixing him with a stern glare that was undercut by the faintest of smiles on her face. Mark returned her gaze with a taunting smirk, clearly unbothered.
Monica said nothing. Instead, she turned sharply and walked toward the study, her footsteps brisk and determined. The rest of the group settled at the dining table, their conversation still swirling around Mark's attitude and how it seemed to revolve solely around him.
******
"History has repeated itself," Grandpa said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I lost my wife prematurely, leaving behind two daughters, one just ten years old, and the other only months old. And now, one of those girls dies prematurely, leaving behind her two daughters. How unbearably tragic."
His words hung heavy in the room as he looked at Dad, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Tell me, son, how are you coping with all this? Losing a wife and a sister at the same time is no easy burden." He paused, his voice breaking as a tear slid down his cheek. "I wish I could have saved her."
"How I wish," Dad echoed, his voice thick with emotion.
Grandpa wiped his tears with the back of his hand before continuing, his tone hardening. "She didn't die a natural death, John. Your sister was killed."
"My wife, Dad. My wife," Dad corrected sharply, the pain evident in his voice. "She stopped being my sister the day we got married. But thinking about it… you're right. Alice was killed. One day she's fine, the next she's complaining about a stomach ache. First, it's diagnosed as acute gastric ulcers. Weeks later, it's stage-four colon cancer. None of it adds up. Something is definitely wrong."
"In my eyes, you two never stopped being siblings," Grandpa said, his tone soft but resolute. "You're still my son, and she'll always be my daughter. But now, we must get justice. I've already started investigating. Will you join me?"
Before Dad could respond, Monica barged into the room unceremoniously. "What investigation?" she asked, her curious tone breaking the somber atmosphere.
"Monica, always knock first," Dad scolded, narrowing his eyes.
"Oops, sorry!" she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Anyway, lunch is ready." Not waiting for their reactions, she quickly darted out of the room, clearly uneasy under the weight of their serious discussion.
She hurried back to the dining area, where the rest of the family had already started eating, their chatter filling the space