No flowers for the dead - Chapter 41: Chapter 41
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It wasn’t fancy.
Just the kitchen table—the same one Elias had always insisted on keeping, scratched in one corner from the time Elara dropped a plate at sixteen, slightly uneven on one leg. Alina had wanted to replace it a hundred times.
Now, she was glad she hadn’t.
Because this imperfect table had witnessed more love and grief than any grand dining room ever could.
And tonight, it was where three women who had all loved the same man would sit — not as strangers, but as something new.
A family, not by blood alone.
But by choice.
⸻
Elara brought the wine.
Rae brought a fresh bouquet—white lilies and deep red roses.
Alina cooked. Nothing extravagant. Just warm garlic bread, roasted chicken, and a salad tossed with citrus and basil.
They didn’t talk about Elias right away.
They talked about books.
Elara was rereading a Toni Morrison novel. Rae confessed she hated poetry but kept a notebook full of it anyway. Alina laughed and admitted she still bought cookbooks even though she never followed recipes.
There was nervousness at first, yes—but underneath it, there was comfort.
And something else.
Recognition.
⸻
It was Rae who finally broke the stillness.
“I think he wanted this,” she said, quietly. “Even if he didn’t know how to ask for it.”
Alina met her gaze. “He was better at creating empires than keeping homes.”
“But he loved you both,” Elara added. “I know that now. I feel it.”
Rae ran her fingers along the rim of her wineglass.
“I was angry for so long. At him. At the silence. At everything I didn’t get to have.”
Elara reached out, and without hesitation, Rae took her hand.
“You still can,” Elara said.
⸻
Later that night, when the dishes were done and the candles had melted low, Alina brought out a box.
It was old, worn leather with a brass clasp.
Inside: photos, notes, sketches Elias had never shown anyone. Letters he wrote but never sent. One, addressed only to “The Daughter I Never Knew.”
Rae held it in shaking hands, her eyes wet but clear.
“He kept this?”
“He never stopped thinking of you,” Alina said.
“I guess he was always afraid he wasn’t enough.”
Elara smiled sadly. “He never realized he already was.”
⸻
And there, in that old kitchen with the uneven leg and the years layered like sediment in every drawer and corner, they began something new.
Not a replacement.
Not a fix.
But a beginning.
A space where grief and love could sit side by side.
Where memory could breathe.
And where no flowers were needed for the dead—because the living were finally learning how to bloom.
Just the kitchen table—the same one Elias had always insisted on keeping, scratched in one corner from the time Elara dropped a plate at sixteen, slightly uneven on one leg. Alina had wanted to replace it a hundred times.
Now, she was glad she hadn’t.
Because this imperfect table had witnessed more love and grief than any grand dining room ever could.
And tonight, it was where three women who had all loved the same man would sit — not as strangers, but as something new.
A family, not by blood alone.
But by choice.
⸻
Elara brought the wine.
Rae brought a fresh bouquet—white lilies and deep red roses.
Alina cooked. Nothing extravagant. Just warm garlic bread, roasted chicken, and a salad tossed with citrus and basil.
They didn’t talk about Elias right away.
They talked about books.
Elara was rereading a Toni Morrison novel. Rae confessed she hated poetry but kept a notebook full of it anyway. Alina laughed and admitted she still bought cookbooks even though she never followed recipes.
There was nervousness at first, yes—but underneath it, there was comfort.
And something else.
Recognition.
⸻
It was Rae who finally broke the stillness.
“I think he wanted this,” she said, quietly. “Even if he didn’t know how to ask for it.”
Alina met her gaze. “He was better at creating empires than keeping homes.”
“But he loved you both,” Elara added. “I know that now. I feel it.”
Rae ran her fingers along the rim of her wineglass.
“I was angry for so long. At him. At the silence. At everything I didn’t get to have.”
Elara reached out, and without hesitation, Rae took her hand.
“You still can,” Elara said.
⸻
Later that night, when the dishes were done and the candles had melted low, Alina brought out a box.
It was old, worn leather with a brass clasp.
Inside: photos, notes, sketches Elias had never shown anyone. Letters he wrote but never sent. One, addressed only to “The Daughter I Never Knew.”
Rae held it in shaking hands, her eyes wet but clear.
“He kept this?”
“He never stopped thinking of you,” Alina said.
“I guess he was always afraid he wasn’t enough.”
Elara smiled sadly. “He never realized he already was.”
⸻
And there, in that old kitchen with the uneven leg and the years layered like sediment in every drawer and corner, they began something new.
Not a replacement.
Not a fix.
But a beginning.
A space where grief and love could sit side by side.
Where memory could breathe.
And where no flowers were needed for the dead—because the living were finally learning how to bloom.
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