I was taping a box shut when the doorbell rang, a sound so impatient and familiar that it made my skin go tight. I looked through the front window and saw my mother’s designer purse before I even saw her face. They had finally decided to show up, and judging by the look on Tyler’s face, they hadn’t come to grieve.
Part 3
My first feeling when I opened the door wasn’t rage, but a deep and immediate sense of disgust. They stood on my porch dressed in expensive resort clothes, looking rested and tan from their time in Hawaii. My mother was wearing cream slacks and pearl earrings, while Tyler wore jeans that probably cost more than my car payment.
“Rose,” my mother said, using that practiced softness she employed when she wanted something from me. “Can we come in?”
She didn’t wait for an answer before stepping past me, her sharp floral perfume cutting through the scent of the funeral flowers. My father followed with his usual heavy walk, and Tyler wandered into the living room like he was meeting me for a casual brunch. I closed the door slowly and told them that their behavior was incredibly rude.