Funerals are supposed to be about remembrance, about honoring a life well-lived. But my stepmother, Vivian, had other plans.
She arrived at my father’s funeral like she was walking the red carpet, her four grown children trailing behind her in matching white outfits. It was a slap in the face to everyone who had come to grieve—especially when she waved around a letter she claimed was my father’s dying wish.
“White was his favorite color,” she declared, as if that explained why she looked like she was attending a yacht party instead of a burial.
I wanted to scream. My father had been a man of simple tastes—dark suits, muted tones. The idea that he would demand such a garish display was absurd. But before I could confront her, Joe, my father’s oldest friend, took the podium.
What happened next was nothing short of poetic justice.
Joe read a letter my father had left—one that exposed Vivian’s true nature. She had stolen from him, neglected him, and only ever cared about his money. The white outfits? A final act of revenge. “Let them stand out,” my father had written. “Let everyone see them for what they are.”
The look on Vivian’s face was priceless. Her carefully constructed façade crumbled in an instant. She tried to protest, but the damage was done. The crowd’s stares said it all.
Humiliated, she fled, her children in tow. And for the first time that day, I felt a sense of peace.
My father had the last word after all.
