The Weight of Grief

After returning from the old Sullivan estate, Lillian Hayes finally couldn’t hold it in any longer and sent a housekeeper to find out where Mariah had been laid to rest. Her chest felt tight, a knot of dread building inside her—she couldn’t pretend she didn’t care anymore. She needed the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

She waited in the parlor, her fingers tracing the faded embroidery on the armrest. Her chest tightened, breath catching every so often, and she had to remind herself to inhale. The old grandfather clock in the hall ticked out a steady, stubborn rhythm—tick, tock, tick, tock. The hush in the room pressed in, making every memory echo louder. Lillian pressed her lips together, bracing herself. Why did I even ask? she wondered, but there was no taking it back now.

According to the housekeeper, Mariah’s death wasn’t discovered until several days later. One of the cleaning staff had noticed a foul smell coming from her room, worse every day. Finally, they forced the door open, and as soon as they entered, they saw Mariah’s body hanging from a ceiling beam, already decaying and crawling with maggots—just as nasty as the takeout containers piling up by her window. The maggots were everywhere, a sight that seared itself into memory.

The housekeeper’s voice trembled as she spoke, her hands wringing the hem of her apron. Lillian listened in silence, her grip tightening around her teacup. She pictured Mariah, alone in that locked room, the world carrying on outside. The image hit hard, like a punch to the gut. The mention of the old takeout containers—the casual cruelty of it—made Lillian’s stomach twist. God, people could be so heartless.

Mariah’s body was so decomposed it was unrecognizable. Mrs. Hayes cried so hard at the sight of her daughter that she nearly passed out. She had wanted to bury Mariah, but remembered how Mariah had always been terrified of bugs since she was a little girl, and feared the earth’s insects would gnaw at her bones. So, swallowing back bile and blinking away tears, she picked the flies and maggots off the body herself, then ordered the entire room burned. She stood there, watching the flames, letting Mariah’s decaying remains be consumed by the fire—because anything was better than the thought of her daughter being eaten by bugs.

The housekeeper’s voice caught, and she paused, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. The details were gruesome. Lillian could almost see her mother—upright and proud, even in heartbreak—doing what needed to be done. She pictured the flames licking at the old wallpaper, smoke rising through the rafters like a final benediction. That’s just how the Hayeses did things: when grief came, you bore it, you acted, and you kept your chin up so the neighbors wouldn’t see you fall apart.

After hearing all this, Lillian stared blankly out the window, then placed the silk flower into a small box and had someone bury the box beneath the old maple tree. She didn’t trust herself to go—couldn’t risk falling apart in front of everyone—so she just watched from behind the glass, eyes burning.

She watched the box being prepared, her hands trembling as she tied the ribbon. The silk flower was a cheap thing from the Five & Dime, but Mariah had loved it—said it looked just like the ones on her childhood Easter bonnet. Lillian pressed her palm to the lid, whispering a promise she couldn’t quite finish. Her throat closed up. She nodded for the housekeeper to take it away. Outside, the sky was pewter gray, the church spire rising over the hedges. She let out a long, shaky breath. The November clouds pressed down, heavy and close, just like her heart.

The maple tree was one Mariah and Lillian had planted together when they were kids. The housekeeper who went to bury the box said the tree had grown wild and sprawling, its branches thick, leaves dark and glossy—nothing like the little sapling they’d once protected from stray soccer balls and wandering dogs.

The housekeeper described the way the roots had spread, thick and gnarled, the trunk sturdy now—nothing like the sapling they’d once watered with a plastic pitcher. In the late afternoon light, the leaves shimmered, dappling the grass with shifting shadows. She said she paused there a moment, listening to the wind, almost expecting to hear two little girls’ laughter echo from the past—like the world might just rewind for a second.

After sharing this, the housekeeper noticed Lillian seemed dazed and asked softly, “Miss Hayes, won’t you go and have a look?”

Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as if afraid the question itself might break Lillian’s composure. The room was so quiet, the only sounds the faint ticking of the clock and a distant bark from a neighbor’s dog. Lillian’s hands curled in her lap.

Lillian snapped back to herself. “No.”

Her answer came out sharp, final. She blinked hard, looking away quickly. She stared at the housekeeper, jaw set, daring her to push further. The words hung between them, brittle as old glass.

She wouldn’t go. Not now. Maybe not ever. She wouldn’t see that maple tree again.

She swallowed hard, gaze drifting to the window. The memory of their childhood—the sticky sap on their hands, Mariah’s giggle when a ladybug landed on her arm—flickered behind her eyelids. Those memories felt just as buried. The tree stood as a silent witness to everything they’d lost. Lillian knew she couldn’t face it. She couldn’t. Not now. Maybe never.

Seeing the housekeeper still lingering, Lillian forced a smile and pointed at her own foot. “My foot’s hurt, I can’t walk much.”

She tried to make it sound casual, tossing the excuse out as if it didn’t matter. But the smile didn’t reach her eyes, and her voice cracked at the end, betraying the ache she tried so hard to hide.

After returning to the estate, her wound had started to fester. She also had several scrapes and bruises. Following the doctor’s advice, she hadn’t showered or gotten her foot wet, just let her maid sponge her off. The wound stung whenever the cold air touched it, and the sponge felt both soothing and chilly against her skin.

The doctor, an old family friend, had insisted she stay off her feet and keep the bandages dry. The maid—a kindly woman with a soft Tennessee drawl, just like the ones who’d cared for Lillian as a kid—brought warm water and lavender soap, gently dabbing at Lillian’s skin, humming old hymns under her breath. It made Lillian feel like she was eight again, helpless and restless, the walls of her room pressing in.

Upon hearing this, the housekeeper hurried to help: “Yes, Miss Hayes, your foot’s hurt. Please sit down for a while, you shouldn’t be up.”

She hovered nearby, fussing over Lillian, plumping the cushions and tugging the blanket straight. She kept smoothing Lillian’s hair, her worry obvious. For a second, Lillian almost let herself relax—almost let herself lean into the comfort of being fussed over.

Lillian shook her head and waved her off, her eyes fixed on the brittle branches outside. The world felt muted, as if everything had been dusted in gray. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, letting the silence settle in her bones. It was easier to watch the world from behind the glass than to step into it.

Her skin itched everywhere. Because she hadn’t bathed in days, a small rash had appeared on her arm, and she found herself scratching at it without thinking, the sting a constant reminder of her own discomfort.

The itch was relentless—a low, prickling irritation that wouldn’t let her forget how raw she felt inside and out. She scratched absently, watching the red blotch bloom on her pale skin. Just another misery to toss onto the pile. Like she needed one more.