Now Life Can Begin

Now We Can Live

Emily stood at the edge of the grave, watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

It was cold. The November wind tugged the black ribbon on the wreath, crept beneath her coat, and made her shiver despite herself.

Nearby, Aunt Hildaa distant relative Emily could barely remember meetingwas sobbing quietly.

Her mother kept herself together, but her fingers clutching Emilys hand were icy cold.

Her father

Emily stared at the coffin and tried to make sense of what she was feeling.

Nothing.

A ringing emptiness inside, like an abandoned house after the heatings been switched off for ages.

A decent man, he was, someone behind her said. May he rest in peace.

Emily nearly laughed aloud.

Decent?

How would they know?

They saw him at family dos, sober, smiling, squeezing the accordion. Magic hands, life of the party, what a jovial bloke.

That was all.

They had no inkling of what he was like at home.

Emily closed her eyes and memory, cheating her yet again, handed her a scene: she must have been about seven, waking up in the night to a thudding racket. Dad stumbling in, missing the doorway entirely, reeking of drink and something sour. Mum dragging him off to their room while he flailed and shouted, You dont respect me! Emily squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the duvet right up to her eyes, so she wouldnt see or hear a thing.

The next morning, her father would be sitting at the kitchen table with an apologetic face, chewing painkillers and saying, Sorry, love. Slipped up again. Wont happen next time.

But it always did.

Always.

Emily opened her eyes. The coffin had been covered, wreaths laid atop the mound. People began to drift towards the cemetery gates. Her mum gently tapped her elbow:

Come on, sweetheart. Wed better go the wakes waiting.

At the wake, Emily felt like an outsider. She nibbled, nodded, responded politely to condolences. Inside, a single thought thudded, one she wanted to scream aloud:

Why do I feel nothing? Why isnt it hurting?

That evening, after everyone left, she stayed with her mum in the kitchen. They drank tea in silence. Then her mother suddenly said:

You know Just now, I realised something odd.

Emily looked up.

I thought, now we dont have to be afraid anymore. He wont collapse somewhere, wont freeze, wont disappear. We can simply live.

Emily saw the same horror in her mothers eyes that she felt in herself. The horror that it was not grief inside, but relief.

Am I horrible? mum whispered.

Emily moved over and hugged her.

No, Mum. Were not horrible. Were just tired.

They sat like that till morning, reminiscing. But not about his drinkingother things: how he built Emily a dolls house, how he taught her to ride a bike, how once he brought back a massive watermelon from the market and they ate it together, cross-legged on the kitchen floor, because it wouldnt fit on the table.

He was complicated. That, too, was true.

Afterwards, her mother went to bed, leaving Emily alone. She picked up her phone and texted her husband: Im alright. Will be home tomorrow.

And for the first time in days, she realised she was breathing normally. No anxiety. No waiting for a dreaded phone call. No constant, exhausting background noise.

Dad was gone. Finally, life was quiet.

She knew the thought would return. Shed wake up many nights consumed with guilt. Aunt Hilda and the rest would murmur, Shes so colddidnt even shed a tear.

But here, in this silent flat where the stink of spirits was gone and nights no longer echoed with arguments, Emily gave herself one moment of honesty.

Sorry, Dad, she whispered into the emptiness. I did love you. Truly. But I was so tired of hating you.

The next morning, she left.

On the train, watching the dreary November countryside slide by, she took out her notebook and scribbled the answer that came:

Children of alcoholics dont cry at funerals. Theyve already cried for years living alongside that sickness. They are not cold. They simply survived.

Emily closed the notebook and, for the first time in ages, smiled.

The train was carrying her into another life. Into a life where she didnt have to look backThe train rattled on, sun breaking through grimy clouds to spill yellow light onto Emilys lap. She watched the patchwork of fields, hedgerows, forgotten barns slip past, and thought: Maybe freedom isnt loud, isnt joyous; maybe its this quiet, gentle space opening up after years of standing pressed against a closed door.

She remembered her father’s laughthe real one, rare and sudden, that could still echo in her chestand let herself feel it. Alongside the ache, she allowed hope. Not for miracles, but for ordinary peace: mornings with coffee, afternoons in cool autumn air, evenings without waiting for disaster.

She pressed her palm to the window and, for a moment, simply existed in the sunlight.

Some hurts stay forever, but relief can carve room for forgiveness. In the gentle clatter and sway, Emily understood: survival is an inheritance, but it is not a prison.

She turned her phone off, tucked the notebook away, and let herself look forward.

Outside, the world was beginning again.

Emily was, too.