Death hung in the air. The only thing stronger than it was Aunt Lucy’s sickeningly sweet perfume, coupled with the blame burning in her eyes. She glares at Mum, and I want to shield Mum from Lucy’s thoughts, which are so evidently displayed on her face.

      Pop just stares blankly at the only photo of his wife in the room. He doesn’t even notice as family and friends try to comfort him. How do you comfort a man who lost his wife? Despite breathing, Pop is as dead as Gran.

      Tears are streaming down Mum’s face. Her round face is all blotchy and red and I feel like scum because I can’t squeeze out a single tear. Dad wraps an arm around Mum. He is much better at comforting her than I will ever be.

      My little sister wraps her arms around Mum’s waist, hugging her. I think she cries because Mummy is crying. It is hard to cry for someone you have avoided for two years.

      The tension in the room weighs on my mind. Will there be a conflict? I can guess what that side of the family is thinking. They probably think it is our fault. We shouldn’t have split the family in two, and cut off contact with her. We probably drove her to her grave.

      I know that’s not true. But it’s written all over their faces, and the way they carry themselves, despite being weighed down with children.

      Pop stares blankly ahead. He is a broken man, weighed down by the death of his wife, and the split in his family that he’s tried so hard to ignore.

      I look around at this broken family, and I feel like scum. I cannot squeeze out a single tear at this funeral.

      It is hard to cry when you can’t care anymore.