The line of black cars moved slowly through the cemetery gates, headlights dim against the gray afternoon sky. The air was heavy with drizzle, the kind that seeps into your clothes and bones, making grief feel even colder. I sat in the first car with my mother, clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand and my father’s old watch in the other. We were silent, our eyes fixed on the casket waiting to be lowered into the earth. Everything about the day felt final, inevitable. Until the procession screeched to a halt.
It was the sound of car doors slamming, whispers rising like a wave. I looked up and saw her. A woman, tall and striking, walking straight down the gravel path. And she was dressed in white. White. At a funeral. Her heels clicked with defiance, her chin held high, and the moment she came into view, the mourners stirred. A ripple of shock, confusion, even anger. Who wears white to a funeral? Who even was she?
My chest tightened as she came closer. She wasn’t just attending—she was interrupting. Stopping everything. She paused near the casket, her umbrella tucked under her arm, her dress clinging to her in the mist. For a moment, no one spoke. And then she said, clear enough for everyone to hear, “He was mine too.”
Gasps echoed through the crowd. My mother stiffened beside me, her face draining of color. I stumbled out of the car, heart pounding in my throat. “Who are you?” I demanded, though my voice trembled.
She looked at me, her eyes wet but steady. “My name is Lila. I loved him. And he loved me.” Her words were sharp, unapologetic. The ground tilted beneath me.
Backstory unraveled in an instant. My father had been a man of routine—stern, disciplined, always leaving early, coming home late. He had his quirks, sure. Mysterious phone calls, business trips that stretched longer than expected. I never questioned it, never dared. He was Dad. Reliable. Untouchable. But now, with this woman standing at his funeral in white, I realized those “quirks” were something else entirely.
My mother finally found her voice, though it cracked. “This is obscene,” she hissed. “Leave. Now.”
But Lila shook her head. “I won’t leave. He wanted me here. He told me—if anything happened—I should say goodbye too.”
The crowd buzzed. Cousins whispered, neighbors gawked. My brother stormed forward, his fists clenched. “You’re a liar,” he spat. “Get out before I drag you out.”
But I couldn’t look away from her. Because despite everything, there was no hatred in her face. Only grief. Raw, real grief that mirrored my own. She wasn’t lying. I could see it in the way her shoulders shook, in the way her hand trembled as she reached out toward the casket.
“Don’t you dare,” my mother cried, stepping between them. Her voice broke into sobs. “Don’t you dare touch him.”
The tension was unbearable, the cemetery now a stage for secrets none of us wanted exposed. But the truth was already out. My father had lived a double life. One with us. One with her. And somehow, both of us were left to mourn him.
When the service finally continued, the priest stammered through prayers, his voice shaky. People avoided looking at me, at my mother, at her. But Lila stayed until the very last shovel of dirt fell. Her white dress stood out against the sea of black, a haunting reminder that my father’s story didn’t end where I thought it did.
That night, I sat in my room clutching the watch tighter than ever. The ticking felt cruel now, mocking. I whispered, “Why?” to the silence, but no answer came. Only the memory of a woman in white, standing uninvited at his grave, claiming a part of him that belonged to her too.
Final Thought
Funerals are supposed to bring closure, but sometimes they open wounds you didn’t know existed. I buried my father that day, but I also buried the illusion of who he was. Because when the stranger in white arrived, I realized grief doesn’t belong to just one family. Sometimes, even love wears two faces.
