18th November, 2015
Dear Tamaya,
You are dead. They buried you in the graveyard behind the church. I was crying the entire time so I couldn't see your face but your dad said you looked so beautiful. And you looked at peace. I hope you were sweetheart. I really hope you were.
We're back home now. I'm in the washroom. I needed to go too but mostly I'm here because I needed some privacy. I wanted to cry and I wanted to talk to you. There are so many people here. Family, friends, even some of your teachers. Ms. Matthews is here too. She's sitting in the corner of the living room. She's wearing a plain black dress. But there's an expensive looking necklace around her neck. Doesn't stand out too much but anybody who might notice it would know it's expensive. I caught her staring at me a few times. She must be wondering whether I blame her for what happened to you. She was there when it happened. And I do blame her. It was her duty, she was supposed to be in charge. She was supposed to keep things under control. She lacked and now you're dead.
Your dad is talking to the neighbours. They were very helpful with the funeral and everything that came before. Amanda came over almost everyday to help with the chores. She made food and took care of Beck while I ruined myself with sleeping pills day and night. If not for her, I'm afraid I might have lost Beck as well.
Beck was brave. Braver than me, even. When we told her about you, what you had done, at first she was adamant that we were mistaken. She took it as a joke even though both of us had our faces painted with tears. Some part of her just didn't accept something like this could happen. A storm so big and so unreal could ever tear her life apart. When she finally accepted, when she called you and you didn't pick up your phone, because your phone was somewhere at the bottom of the lake, she cried. She cried harder than both of us. But while I continued down the path of misery and pain, she hung on. To you. She slept in your room at night. She didn't change anything. She simply slept there. As if the simple act of sleeping in your bed would somehow bring her closer to you. I wanted to sleep in your bed too. But I didn't wanna disturb her. She needed it more.
I'm sure some part of her hated you. I know a part of me did. It's tough to accept this. And harder to notice that something like that actually exists inside of you. That the person you love so much, the person who deserves all of your love, especially after they have passed, gets a little bit of hate as well. For ever leaving in the first place. Still, most of my hate is reserved for the people who brought you to this point, myself included.
I should go back outside now. People must be expecting the grieving mother to come out and accept their sympathies over and over and over again to their heart's satisfaction. I can't though. I can't seem to move my legs. It's like I'm fixed to the floor and the coldness which I embraced when I first sat down has become an inseparable part of me, unwilling to let go of me.
There's a knock on the door. I don't know whether it's someone who wants to use the bathroom and doesn't know about the other one, or it's your dad, or even Amanda, who must have noticed how long I've been in here. Whoever it is, they don't say anything.
I think I'll just go outside.
Love,
Your mom.
