Kazia
"He was a good father and husband, a good friend, and a kind, loving boss. He never oppressed the poor and was always fair in all his dealings. He was a great man, a true servant of God who dedicated his life to others. Our dear father, brother, and friend, your good deeds will be remembered forever. Although you leave us physically, your spirit will remain in our hearts."
"Anthony Gratis, may your soul rest in peace. I now invite the wife of Anthony Gratis to share a few words about her beloved husband," the priest says solemnly as he steps down from the podium.
Stepping forward, my stepmother appears as though she's barely holding herself together. She clutches the podium tightly, a handkerchief pressed to her lips as she begins her speech.
"It's hard to accept that Anthony is gone," she starts, her voice shaking.
"How am I supposed to go on without him? Where will I ever find another husband like him? And what about our children? They're fatherless now." She wipes at a tear.
"Nothing hurts more than losing such a wonderful man. Anthony was the perfect husband, father, and friend. There wasn't a day he didn't show his love for me and our children. He loved them more than anything in this world. He didn't deserve to die like this, he just didn't." She begins to sob.
I watch her performance, my jaw clenched. If this were a film set, I'd applaud her acting skills. After everything my father did for them, after the sacrifices he made, this is how they repay him?
They said he died of a heart attack, but I don't buy it. If it was a heart attack, someone must have caused it. I'm convinced his death was no accident—it was deliberate. And here she is, pretending to grieve when I know she doesn't care.
My stepmother collapses dramatically onto the floor, wailing uncontrollably. People rush to her side, lifting her gently and leading her offstage.
Next, Lydia, my stepsister, is called to speak. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. If I didn't know any better, I might actually believe she was devastated by my father's passing.
"Even though I wasn't Anthony's biological daughter, he always treated me like his own," Lydia says tearfully. "He took care of me like I was his flesh and blood, something my real father failed to do. It breaks my heart that I've lost such a kind, loving man."
Just like her mother, she puts on her weeping act. She sniffles and dabs at her eyes. It's as though they've rehearsed this together, timing each tear, each sob. It's a performance worthy of an award.
Tyson, my stepbrother, goes up to the stage next. He too doesn't disappoint. His face crumples with sorrow, and his voice cracks as he speaks of the man he supposedly cherished.
Then, the moment I dread finally arrives. My turn. I've been feeling so numb these past few days that I haven't prepared anything to say. My mind feels blank, and my heart is heavy.
I walk onto the stage, facing an audience of mournful, expectant faces. Some look at me with sympathy; others with curiosity. I see my stepmother being consoled by her family, my stepsister sitting quietly, no longer crying, and my stepbrother checking his phone.
Nearby, my stepmother's family—her mother and sister—sit amongst those comforting her. My eyes scan the room, and I spot Aidan, Jules, and Leo seated toward the back. They give me encouraging nods, and I manage a small smile. They've been my rocks these past few days, helping me stay grounded.
My father-in-law is also present, sitting quietly. He's always been a steady presence, a man of few words but immense strength. His support means a lot today. Among the crowd, I also notice several relatives who barely knew my father, acting as though they're heartbroken. It's sickening. They never cared about him when he was alive.
I take a deep breath and face the microphone.
"If a stranger walked into this hall today, seeing this crowd, they'd think Anthony Gratis was a man loved by many," I say, my voice calm but edged with bitterness. "But we know that's far from the truth. I bet that those who genuinely loved him could be counted on two hands, even though this hall is full."
There's a murmur of surprise. I can feel the tension rising in the room.
"He was a good husband, a good friend, a good father—yes, all the usual things people say. Mrs. Gratis, tell us, how much do you actually know about your husband?" I ask, turning my gaze to my stepmother. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat but doesn't respond.
"Did you know he didn't like oranges or pineapples?" I wait for her response but she says nothing. I turn to look at Tyson and Lydia too but they immediately avoid my eyes.
"His teeth were sensitive, and they hurt when he ate them." I say.
"Of course I knew that," my stepmother snaps defensively, her voice suddenly steady. "What are you trying to prove?"
"Oh, really? Then tell us something else he didn't like to eat," I challenge.
She glances around nervously. "Don't ask me these silly questions," she hisses. "We're here to honor him, not talk about irrelevant things."
A murmur ripples through the audience. I know I've caught her off guard.
"My father was allergic to seafood. He couldn't stand the taste of cake. Goat meat disgusted him, and he only drank vegan milk. I bet you didn't know any of that, even though you lived with him for years. We both know you're here for his money."
The murmurs grow louder, reporters taking notes and people whispering to each other.
"You're lying!" she shrieks, her face flushed with anger. "I knew my husband better than anyone. You're making this up. How dare you disrespect him like this?"
"Everything I've said is the truth. His dietitian is here to confirm it," I say, pointing to an elderly man seated near the front. He nods solemnly, acknowledging my claim.
I fix my stepmother with a cold stare. "I bet you can't wait for the will to be read—the will you probably manipulated. Tyson is finally old enough to take over the family business, isn't he? He just turned twenty."
"Miss Gratis, we're here to honor the dead, not to accuse one another," the priest interjects, his voice firm.
"Mrs. Armani," I correct him, my tone unwavering. "I'm not hurling baseless accusations. I'm just stating facts. The truth may hurt, but that doesn't make it any less true."
There's a charged silence as the room processes my words. I feel a weight lifting from my chest, a sense of freedom I haven't felt in a long time. I've carried these thoughts, these suspicions, for too long. Letting them out here, in front of everyone, feels like the release I needed.
As I'm escorted off the stage, I catch one last glimpse of my stepmother. She's seething, her face a mask of barely contained fury. The crowd is in turmoil, whispers and questions swirling around the room. I don't care. Speaking my truth was worth it.
For the first time since my father's passing, I feel peace.